Anything and Everything
by Enlee
Summary: Wilson is now divorced...... HouseWilson slash. Chapter 40 is up. The Last Chapter. Please read and review!
1. Chapter 1

Greg and I have been wallowing in our collective misery for a while now, me from a third divorce, him from the depression that hits every few months or so. I'm feeling ready to move on, but Greg is still pissed off at the world, and for now is content to sit and stare at the walls every night.

His depressive episodes, like this one, can last for weeks. The one time he tried Prozac it made him so loopy that he declared all antidepressants evil, flushed his pills down the toilet, and vowed to never touch them again. After that I was more or less appointed to keep an eye on Greg whenever his moods turn dark, which usually involves trying to convince him to get some sleep and hiding his keys whenever he drinks too much.

You might ask yourself why I'm willing to put up with someone like Dr. Gregory House. The answer is simple–He's my friend and I care about him, and I know he cares about me. Sadly, he doesn't have a clue as to how much I really care about him. I'm hoping to change all that.

We've known about each other's inclinations to bat for both teams for many years now. It's fair to say that my bisexuality is one of the many reasons why I'm thrice divorced. Call me a lout, but hey, I'm not perfect and never pretended to be. Greg has always preferred to keep that bit of information to himself as much as possible. Even Stacy didn't know. Mind you, it isn't out of shame or guilt, it's just he prefers women over men.

Like I said, I'm hoping to change all that. Right now I'm just waiting for the right moment.

* * *

We were watching Kill Bill Vol. 1 at 9pm on a Friday night, and frankly neither of us had anything better to do. I could have begged off and gone to bed early but I didn't feel like staring at the walls of the Greg's spare bedroom where I have been living for the past three months. Greg took over the sofa while I was curled up in the recliner, which I hate. Since my friend was kind enough to take me in after all my divorces and given his mood lately, I kept my mouth shut. I had slept in my office for three days after my wife threw me out and I didn't want to sleep there again.

Greg's current depression appeared to be lifting. He drank only two glasses of brandy, the third was untouched on the table next to his bottle of Vicodin. He smiled and chuckled a few times at the television. And he was calling me 'Jimmy' again instead of 'Wilson', which is what he does whenever he's in a pissy mood.

After a while I noticed it was oddly quiet, the only sounds from the television. I looked over at the sofa and saw why. Greg had fallen asleep. To be sure, I grabbed the remote and hit the mute button. He didn't snap up and yell at me to turn the fucking sound back on, so he was out cold. Given that Gregory House is the most notorious insomniac and light sleeper in the state of New Jersey, he must have really been tired.

I turned off the television. The room was still except for the sound of his steady breathing. The doctor was on his back, head tilted towards the television, one arm hanging to the floor while the other was draped across his chest. For the first time in ages he looked content and relaxed.

I quietly got up and settled on the end of the sofa by his feet. Carefully, I undid the laces of one sneaker and pulled it off. I was starting on the other one when I looked up and saw Greg's bright blue eyes staring back at me.

"What are you doing?" If he was angry, he was doing a damn good job of hiding it.

"Taking your shoes off." I pulled at the laces. He made no effort to stop me.

"Why?"

"You fell asleep," I said, slipping the shoe off and setting it on the floor with its partner. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"It's okay," he muttered with a tired smile. For whatever reason he seemed to be amused by the whole thing.

I stood up and said, "Go to bed and get some sleep."

"I'm fine." Greg closed his eyes and rolled over, facing the sofa. "Try not to read all fucking night, Jimmy. The light under your door keeps me awake." He was out again in ten seconds.

Every time I think I've got Greg's eccentricities down he always turns around and does something else that leaves me shaking my head.

After a brief hunt I found an extra blanket and draped it over my eccentric friend.

Sleep tight, Greg. Things should be better tomorrow.


	2. Chapter 2

Watching Greg House come out of rare seven-hour sleep is like watching a bear coming out of hibernation, and they're both just about as pleasant to be around when they do. I waited for the Vicodin and coffee to boot him up a bit. 

"It's definitely an oatmeal kind of day. You want some?" I said, filling up a pot with hot water.

He shook his head and went back to sipping coffee strong enough to eat through lead.

Eyeing the rumpled clothes he was still wearing, I asked, "No work today?"

"My day off," he answered laconically, peering over the mug.

"Any big plans for today?"

Greg raised his eyebrows. "What are you, my secretary?" The coffee was warming him up; his eyes were losing their post-sleep glaze. "Well Jimmy, I thought about skydiving today but it's supposed to rain. Besides, I don't think they'll let me take my cane on the jump."

"So you're going to sit on your ass and watch soaps."

"You read me like a book," he smirked. "If I'm feeling really adventurous I might even scan through a medical journal or two."

"You're a regular Indiana Jones," I remarked, stirring the oatmeal.

"Hmph," was his only response, then he went back to his insanely strong coffee.

I joined him at the table with my oatmeal and a glass of orange juice.

"You know, Greg, it wouldn't kill you to have some fun every once in a while."

His gaze met mine, his blue eyes now wide awake and glowing. "Define 'fun' for me, Jimmy."

"Just go out and do something, get some air," I said between bites. "You don't have to stay cooped up in here all day."

"There's plenty of air in here. And I don't want to miss _General Hospital_."

"You can tape _General Hospital_." Talking to my friend was sometimes as effective as talking to a rock, but I was still determined to have him hear me out. "All you do on your days off is watch soaps. Missing your soaps isn't the end of the world."

"Maybe for you."

"Greg..."

"Do I need your permission to watch my soaps?"

"There's more to life than those damn soaps."

"I'm not going anywhere today. It's raining."

Looking out the window I saw he was right. The clouds opened up and sheets of rain pounded against the windows.

But that was beside the point.

I tried another angle. "Greg, how long have we known each other?"

"Twelve years, give or take," he answered, then gulped down the last of his coffee.

As I finished up my breakfast I asked, "And would it be fair to say I probably know you better than anyone else?"

"I guess it is," Greg said in a dismissive way, as if he knew it was true but didn't really care one way or the other.

"Good." I gather up my dishes. "Will you at least think about what I said, let yourself have some fun?" He might give it a whole three seconds of thought, but at least I got him to listen to me.

"Geez, I didn't know you cared so much, Jimmy." The sarcasm oozed from his words.

"Here's a newsflash for you, Greg, I _do_ care," I said curtly, catching him completely by surprise. "Here's another newsflash, that wall you built around yourself is going to come crashing down sooner or later, and you damn well better hope somebody will be there for you when it does."

I stood at the sink waiting for him to scream at me to get the hell out. For a while he scowled into his empty coffee cup as if he would find some answers in there. But there weren't any. Finally he looked up at me, a hint of sadness in his expression, and quietly said, "You're going to be late."

"Right," I sighed. On my way out I paused behind his chair and carefully set my hand on his shoulder. Greg remained stone still. "Just think about what I said." Then I stalked to the living room to hunt for my keys.

_That wall is coming down, Greg_, I thought as I snatched my keys and stepped into the downpour. _Take a wild guess as to who's going to be there with the wrecking ball._


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: For the readers of my stories–unless I actually say so treat every story as a separate entity. Translation: What happens in one story may not necessarily carry over to another._

_In this chapter House turns up his mean streak meter to 11._

After our little outburst at breakfast the rest of the workday was uneventful, if not dull and cloudy. When I got back to 221B it was still raining, the kind of gloomy, depressing day that can make even the most jubilant of people stay home with the covers over their heads.

Greg was perusing _The New England Journal of Medicine_ while the local news played out quietly on the television.

"Hey Greg," I said in a low, casual voice as I shrugged out of my dripping coat.

"Evening Jimmy," he replied in the same tone. It was almost impossible to tell if he was avoiding looking at me or was actually interested in the journal.

"Anything enthralling in the world of medicine?"

"_New England_ keeps publishing crap written by quacks," he answered thickly, and tossed the journal on the table.

"Too bad," I remarked, settling into the recliner. "Did you enjoy your soaps?"

He was looking over at the news but not watching it. "They were fine until the cable went out during the last fifteen minutes."

"That sucks."

"Yes it does. It did give me some time to think, though."

"About what?" I said in an idiotically passive tone.

"The usual stuff," Greg smirked. "The meaning of life...skydiving...the great outdoors...you."

I sat up. "What about me?"

My friend turned to face me, his expression giving away nothing. "This morning you made a big deal out saying you cared."

"I mean it," I said, matching his stoic gaze with my own.

"I know you do," he responded with a humorless chuckle. "But why do I get the feeling you have been so patiently waiting for a rather peculiar moment to say it."

"I meant what I said, Greg, whatever the moment was," I remarked, wondering where he was going with this.

Bouncing his cane from hand to hand, he continued, "Hmmm...I suppose that's why you haven't moved out yet. You don't want to move out. The perfect place with the perfect roommate. No bachelor pad for you, no sir–"

"Greg..."

"–you must have the patience of a saint. Laying around my spare bedroom, pining away for that invitation to come into the master suite–"

"_Greg..._"

"–I'm sure your wives just _loved_ hearing you call out my name–"

"_Stop it!_" I was out of the recliner, pacing. "Just stop it! Don't you _dare_ try to twist this into something...for God's sake, just _shut up_!"

I should have known. He wasn't an idiot. He had been able to put together more from less.

But I still didn't understand what he was so angry about.

"We've know each other for twelve years, Jimmy," Greg said, his voice calm and icy, gripping his cane so tightly his knuckles were white. "That knowledge is a two-way street."

"Or a double-edged sword," I snapped, tasting the salty tears running down my face. "Were you pining away to see which one of us would fall on it first?" I didn't wait for an answer. "You could have thrown me out anytime you wanted. You could have thrown all my shit out in the pouring rain today while I was at the hospital. Why didn't you?"

Glancing over, I could see his eyes turning red and welling up. "You never gave me a reason to throw you out."

"That's it? That's all you have to say?"

"What do you want me to say, Jimmy?" Greg leaned his head against the handle of his cane.

"How about this," I said, walking over and standing over him. "You didn't throw me out because you like having me here."

No answer. He just slowly rocked back and forth.

"Tell me I'm wrong, Greg."

Silence.

"Tell me, Greg. Tell me I'm wrong."

More silence. More rocking.

I sighed, defeated. "I'll go pack–"

In a flash his hand clamped onto my wrist. Looking down at him I could see at that moment he was everything he hated to be–angry, scared, vulnerable, sad, confused–and he hated the fact that I had seen him like that. He was squeezing my wrist hard enough to make the bones grind.

"You're not wrong," he finally said, looking me in the eye. "You know, Jimmy, it might seem like that I hate the world and everyone in it, but I've always known that no matter how bad things get I can never bring myself to hate you."


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Things start to get slashy towards the end of this chapter._

Eventually he let go of my wrist, leaving a red ring behind where his grip had been.

"I think both of us could use a drink," he said, suddenly getting up and stalking off to the kitchen without turning around. The creak of cabinet doors and clink of glasses found their way to my ears. After a while I followed his path. A glass of brandy was waiting for me at one of the counter while he stood at the other end.

I stayed at my end and swallowed the brandy. From the corner of my eye I could him casting glances in my direction like he was surprised I was still there.

"After what I said to you in there," Greg said, breaking the uneasy silence, "you have every right to walk out that door and never look back."

"I could, but I'm not going to." The brandy burned my throat.

"I see. You're not going to let me off that easy. No matter how angry you get, you're going to see this through to the end."

"I'm not angry."

"You always were a lousy liar, Dr. Wilson," he remarked tersely, throwing back the rest of his brandy and pouring another.

"Okay, all right, I'm angry. But I'll get over it." I held out my now empty glass. He reached over and refilled it without comment. "Why are you so angry, Greg?"

Sloshing his drink around, Greg replied, "I just don't believe in happy endings."

"Did you believe that before or after the infarction?"

From his eyes came a glare so frigid I swear the room temperature dropped twenty degrees.

"You lashing out at me had nothing to do with a 'happy ending', so _excuse me_ if I call you a lousy liar too, Dr. House." Greg was right about one thing, I wasn't going to let him off that easy.

"Twelve years and three marriages later, this is what you want." He took another gulp of his drink and took a leery look around the room as if he expected it all to be an elaborate practical joke.

"Yes," I answered.

"You want to be here...with me."

"Yes."

"How long have you wanted this?"

"I don't know. Too fucking long, that's all I can tell you right now," I said, setting my empty glass in the sink. The brandy roiled in my stomach.

His expression went from icy to incredulous. "So what the fuck were your marriages all about, window dressing?"

"Something like that." I chuckled flatly. "You're not the only one with conflicted feelings, Greg. For the record, I loved my wives. I regret divorcing them, not marrying them."

Crossing his arms as if he were suddenly freezing, Greg said, "You've been waiting for this for a long, long time. No more pesky wives or regrets waiting at home. Christ, Jimmy, you do have the patience of a saint."

Inching my way closer, I replied, "Now it's just you and me."

"And you chose a fucked-up, crippled drug addict over the wives you loved with all your heart." He looked around the room again, trying to find the hidden cameras and waiting for the punch line.

"Yeah, I did. And I'd do it again." In a blink his head snapped around as if he had an electric shock. "There's more to you than your fucking leg and your fucking pills, Greg." My voice was getting louder but I couldn't help it. He was going to hear everything I had to say even if it killed me. "Now during, say, the last dozen years or so, who has been the one constant presence in your life, the _one person_ who has been there for you after your surgery and Stacy and everything else. Go ahead, Greg, tell me who it is and I'll tell you who was the only person there for me after the wives I loved with all my heart kicked me out."

A few beats of silence. "I don't need to answer that," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. His arms were still crossed, trying to ward off a chill only he could feel.

I nodded in agreement. "No, you don't need to. Just answer this–does our friendship, relationship, whatever the hell you want to call it, does it mean anything to you?"

No response.

"Please, just answer the question."

Slowly and deliberately he uncrossed his arms and leaned back with a diminutive smile. "It means everything to me."

"You really mean it." It was more of a statement than a question.

Drumming his fingers on the countertop, he said, "What do I have to say to convince you, Jimmy. You got what you wanted, now just be sure you want what you get."

A nervous laugh escaped my throat. "Um...yeah, okay. I'll be sure to remember that."

"Any regrets so far?"

"No."

"Good," Greg chuckled. "It's a little early in the game for that kind of thing."

"You were the only who was there for me, Greg. I'll never forget that."

"Please, you don't have to say anything."

I walked over and put my hands on the counter on either side of him, basically pinning him in place. Looking in his eyes, I said, "Now that I have you, what am I going to do with you?"

Glancing down at my arms, Greg replied, "You've been dreaming of this moment for God knows how long. You tell me."

I'd never been that close to him before. Leaning in, I lightly touched my mouth to his. The kiss grew more deep and intense, both of us tasting each other and holding each other, not wanting to let go.

"Christ, Jimmy," he gasped, wrapping an arm around my back, burying his head between my neck and shoulder, "I could never hate you. No matter what, I could never hate you."


	5. Chapter 5

Depression still had him in its grip. He was morose and taciturn for the rest of the evening, though he did insist that sit with him on the couch and he put an arm around my shoulder. That simple act brought a smile to his face and seemed to fill his pleasantry quota for the night. If it made it him happy then I can't complain. 

For a while he clung to me like a drowning man clinging to a piece of driftwood. Eventually, after much tossing and turning and murmuring at whatever dream was projecting on his mind, Greg migrated to the other side of the bed and lightly snored away in a fitful sleep. The rain ended and moonlight filtered through the shades and bleached out any color left in the room.

But I got what wanted, an invitation to the master suite, even if Greg invited me just for the sake having me there. Like I said, I can't complain. Like Greg, I know the chapters of life don't always have a perfect ending.

* * *

"Human intelligence is overrated," Greg told me while shaking pepper over his scrambled eggs. 

"How so?" I asked, genuinely intrigued about what he was going to say. He was a little more animated this morning which I thought was a good sign.

"Just take a look around you, Jimmy. For every undeniably brilliant mind like Albert Einstein and Stephen Hawking there's a hundred yahoos who write hold-up notes on the back of their personal checks or sue Burger King after they ate five Double Whoppers every day for twenty years and got fat. This planet is a veritable quagmire of stupidity."

"So where do you and I fit into all this?"

Greg smirked and raised his coffee mug as if in a toast. "You and I are the lucky fellows who get to wander knee-deep in that quagmire every day."

"You have clinic duty today, don't you?" I gulped down my orange juice and poured another glass.

"Yes, unfortunately."

"Knee-deep in all of it," I said. "Does that make us brilliant or stupid."

"Neither," Greg answered, finishing his breakfast. "We aren't smart enough to grace the history books and we're not dumb enough to try and sneak through customs with five kilos of heroin in our shorts."

"That's a rather unique way of viewing the world, Greg."

He looked over at me and chuckled. "If you're going to live under my roof and share my bed you better get used to my views real damn quick."

* * *

"He won't," I told Cuddy after she ambushed me in the cafeteria line. 

"Maybe he'll listen to you."

"If Carmen Electra came to him in a g-string and begged him, he still wouldn't. You know that. Why are we having this conversation?"

"Can you at least try to talk to him, see if he'll at least consider getting some help?" Cuddy asked while keeping pace with me in line.

Handing a few crumpled bills to cashier I answered, "For what, the Vicodin or the depression? 'Try' is the operative word. I can talk to him until the stars fall out the sky, Dr. Cuddy, that doesn't mean he'll listen to a word of it."

She blocked my way to the tables. "You're his friend. You know him and his moods."

"Yeah, I know his moods, but I can't change them," I said, walking around the Dean of Medicine. "I'll pass along your message. If House wants help he'll ask for it. Until then we're both wasting our time."

She didn't pursue it any further and I listened to the sound of her heels clicking towards the exit.

I had just sat down when a hand materialized from nowhere and snatched the potato chips from my tray.

"Help yourself," I said as Greg sat across from me.

"I did," he replied dryly. "Clinic duty went from a quagmire to a cesspool."

"That good, huh?"

"Mmm...hmmm," he muttered between chips. "I must have wronged Cuddy in a past life. I'm being punished."

I munched on a bit of my sandwich and said, "Cuddy wants me to pass along a message to you."

"Let me guess, she wants me to seek some professional help."

"How'd you know?"

"Cuddy and I have this conversation at least twice a year. I think she wants me to try the Prozac again even if it does make me all drowsy and loopy and could interact with the Vicodin. But as long as I'm happy about it why should she care? I see she got you to do her dirty work this time."

"I'm not doing anyone's dirty work," I pointed out. "Don't kill the messenger."

"I'm not," he said. "Tell Cuddy the answer is no, again, and tell her she should wear that black push-up bra."

"You can tell her yourself," I said, then changed the subject. "How are you feeling?"

"Better, thanks," Greg rested his chin in his hand. "So...Dr. Wilson...have you figured out what to do with me yet?"

Grinning, I said, "I might have a few ideas."

"Good," he smiled. "But there's an _O.C._ marathon on tonight so I'm afraid they might have to wait."


	6. Chapter 6

As far as Greg's obsession with soap operas goes, both daytime and nighttime soaps, the answer is yes he really watches that crap. Why, I have no idea. They're all the same to me–impossibly beautiful people who lie, cheat, steal and sleep with anything that has a pulse. I can see that at the hospital for free and not have to worry about taping over it later. So I suffered through a three-hour marathon of _The O.C._, and being as it's his television, I didn't have much say in it. We shared the couch again, munching on popcorn and slurping down Pepsi. 

He was letting me get close, but not too close, still keeping me at arm's length, but some progress is better than nothing. Sitting on his couch and sleeping in his bed is Greg House being Gandhi and one wrong wisecrack would banish me back to the spare bedroom.

I underestimated the size of the wall, and the size of the wrecking ball needed to bring it down. But if being married multiple times has taught me anything it's that a little patience goes a very long way.

* * *

"Anything else on?" I said, breathing a sigh of relief that _The O.C._ was finally over. 

"Let's see." Greg flipped through the TV Guide. "There's _Star Trek, Dog the Bounty Hunter_, and some stupid movie about a bunch of idiots who have to rebuild a plane they crashed. Quality television, it just doesn't get any better." With a snort of disgust he tossed the guide to the table.

I rested my head on his shoulder. "Could you flip it to The Weather Channel? Another storm system is supposed to be moving in."

He did then scraped the popcorn bowl for the few remaining kernels.

"The Weather Channel," Greg snickered, "it's like golf only more boring."

"More rain and wind is heading our way." I pointed to the television. "See, it's good for something."

"So is opening a window, and I don't have to pay a monthly fee for that."

"There's a flash flood watch."

"Someone better man the fucking life boats," he grumbled, then surprised the hell out of me with a quick kiss. "I don't know about you but I'm ready to hit the hay."

"Already?" I said, glancing at the clock. "You're going to bed before midnight?"

"Yeah, I thought I'd get some sleep like you non-insomniac people." My friend turned and eyed me suspiciously. "Did you have something else in mind, Jimmy?"

"Well...sort of..."

"Sort of..._what_?"

"If you're tired...," I fumbled, feeling my face turn fire engine red, "If you're tired it won't be as much fun."

"I can do anything you young folks can do," Greg smirked. "I just can't do it as often."

I furrowed my brows. "You're not that much older than me."

"Exactly," he replied, turning back to the kitchen. "See what you have to look forward to?"

* * *

"Damn it all to hell." 

"Greg, go back to sleep."

"I _can't_. The fucking storm is keeping me awake."

Outside the wind was shrieking, slamming against the building like a giant hand, driving the rain sideways into the windows. It was more than enough to make the average layman wonder if hurricane season decided to become a year-round event.

He flipped over, facing me. In the dim light of the room he was all outlines and shadows.

"I just want some sleep," he mumbled into the pillow. "Is that too much to ask?"

Being the light sleeper he is, anything like heavy rain and howling wind is more likely than not to wake him up. I've heard him stalk to the kitchen on more than a few stormy nights.

"It'll die down soon," I said quietly.

"That's what you say."

His hand brushed mine. I took it and held on. Slowly his grip relaxed.

"Jimmy, answer something for me."

"Sure."

"Could you ever hate me?"

The question came from nowhere and knocked me back a bit. I took my time with the answer as the wind and rain eased up on the windows. Greg waited quietly, never trying to remove his hand from mine. Even in the dark I knew is eyes were open and he was looking at me; his gaze had a weight that could be felt even when it couldn't be seen.

"You're prickly, rude, arrogant, and a misanthrope," I finally began. "And you said you could never hate me, now matter what. If you can bring yourself to say something like that, even to one person, how could I possible ever hate you?"

Rain pattered on the roof.

"Anything else you want to know, Greg?"

"No, that's fine for now," he answered, squeezing my hand.

"Okay." I smiled to myself, knowing that I just knocked a few bricks from that wall.


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: Kinda sorta slashy_

"Good morning, Dr. Wilson."

"Good morning, Dr. Cuddy. Have you–"

"Morning Cuddy." Greg broke in. "I see the twins are saying 'good morning' too. Is that a new Wonderbra?"

With a roll of her blue eyes, the Dean of Medicine slapped a file to his chest. "New patient.  
Twenty-seven year old male with dizziness, headaches, a rash and memory loss. No signs of trauma."

"I'm enthralled." Without looking at the file he tucked it under his arm and limped to the elevator. "And your bra strap is showing."

Adjusting her blouse, she said, "Just go see your damned patient," and huffed off.

I joined him at the elevator. "You have no shame, do you?"

"Shame is overrated."

"You do realize she can fire you."

"And yet I'm still here."

"Would it kill you to show your boss a little respect?" I asked as the elevator opened and we stepped inside.

"I never said I didn't respect Dr. Cuddy," said Greg, looking at me with a crooked grin. "Her bra strap _was_ showing. I could have asked if the Midol was kicking in yet but that would have been rude."

"And disrespectful," I pointed out, noting his slightly strange but improving mood

"Exactly."

The elevator beeped and the doors slid open.

* * *

By the time he came to see me in my office later that afternoon I was up to my neck in paperwork and Greg's mood had shifted from a bit strange to weird and contentious. His eyes had a peculiar glow. 

"You feeling okay, Greg?"

"Just fine. Still have no shame, though," he replied with a low chuckle, then dry swallowed a Vicodin.

"Look, I've got all this paperwork to do–"

"I don't care about your goddamn paperwork, Jimmy."

I snapped my head up. Greg was still across the room, leaning against the door as if he didn't want anyone else coming in.

"What's wrong, Greg?"

"Nothing's wrong. I'm fine, just like I said."

Living with Greg House meant living with his moodiness, he can go from docile to aggressive in five seconds flat. Whatever set him off this time it wasn't me, and his aggression wasn't aimed at me. In the meantime there was nothing I could do except see where and how he would take it.

"You could never hate me," he said, that peculiar glow remaining in his eyes. "That's a pretty bold statement. Do you stand by it?"

"Yes," I answered, then threw in "Do you?" just to see his reaction.

"I'm asking the questions here." Greg's voice was almost a growl.

My moody friend left the door behind and limped towards my desk.

"Do you stand by it?" he asked again.

"Yes, Greg."

"Good," he said, his voice a bit calmer.

At that moment I realized he asked the question just hear me say the answer out loud.

"Do you know what this whole situation reminds me of, Jimmy?" Limping closer to my desk he continued without waiting for a comment. "Day and night. Summer and winter. Cats and dogs. What are those things, Jimmy?"

"I don't know."

"All those years of college and medical school and you don't know? They're _opposites_. Opposites attract, isn't that right?"

"That's what they say," I replied, still wondering what the hell he was talking about and why he was talking about it.

"Believe it," Greg replied, rounding the desk. "Opposites attract, balance each other out, the good and the bad. People talk about finding that so-called special someone and how they have so much in common. That's bullshit. Who wants to live with clone of themselves? I sure as hell don't."

Before I knew what was happening he grabbed my tie and yanked me out of the chair, pulling me closer until we were nose to nose.

"Greg, wait! What are you–"

"_Shut up_." His scowl transformed into a nervous laugh. His right hand was still wrapped around my tie while his left brushed the hair out my eyes. "Three months. Three months under my roof and you never said a goddamn word. Christ, Jimmy, you do deserve to sleep in my bed."

With that he kissed me, putting some hidden and raw emotion behind it. He drew me in, holding the kiss long and deep, a quiet moan escaping from his throat. God knows how long we were together like that until he broke away and pushed me back into the chair.

Neither of us spoke. I glared at him, my chin feeling coarse from where his beard had scratched it. He licked his lips, then looked around as if it suddenly dawned on him where he was.

"Finish your fucking paperwork, Jimmy. You know where I'll be," he muttered, then limped out of my office, taking extra care to slam the door behind him.


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: More slash and Dr. House likes to play by his rules._

Needless to say, after that charming little encounter I couldn't concentrate; the words on the papers scattered all over my desk blurred together. Frustrated, I gracelessly stuffed them back into my desk in no particular order. With his taste still my tongue and my chin still burning I grabbed my coat.

In the garage I noted with no particular surprise that Greg's bike was gone. But that was okay. I knew where he was.

Back in 221B the only light came from the television as one of the _Law & Order_ shows played quietly to an empty room. No sign of Greg, he wasn't stretched out on the sofa as per usual.

I was groping for the light switch when an arm suddenly wrapped around my neck.

"_You're late_," he growled. A sudden vision flashed across my mind–Greg behind the door, waiting impassively in the dark for me to step inside. Apparently he could find some patience in himself when he really wanted to. "Your fucking paperwork really that important?"

His breath was hot against my neck and was tinged with the scent of bourbon. More scratching from his beard as he leaned in closer. "Answer me," he said, and punctuated his request with a short jerk of the arm at my throat.

"You know I didn't get any paperwork done," I replied, dimly realizing I was feeling too warm in the coat I didn't have time to remove, keys still in hand.

"That's what I thought." He sounded both pleased and amused. I knew he was smiling even though I couldn't see his face. The arm around my neck remained firm.

I reached for the light switch and he jerked his arm again.

"Don't," Greg whispered sharply, his mouth brushing against my jawline. "Don't turn on the lights and don't turn around."

"What is this–"

"_Jimmy, shut up_," The grip around my neck increased a notch. "You're under my roof, you're going to play by my rules or you're not going to play at all. Do we understand each other?"

"Yes," I gulped.

"Good. Take off your coat and suit jacket. Don't turn around." The arm let go.

"Greg..."

"Do it or you're sleeping in your fucking car tonight." A less-than-subtle jab with the cane told me he was serious.

Stuffing the keys in my pocket, I shrugged out my coat, feeling his blue eyes cutting through the dim light, watching my every move. He was in his apartment, his comfort zone, in complete control and loving every second of it. I was going along just to see how far he was willing to take it and how far I was willing to go with him. I remembered the way he kissed me in my office and licked my lips.

My coat and suit jacket were barely off when his left arm reappeared around my neck. The clothing fell to the floor in a crumpled heap as I was dragged backward until there was a thump of Greg hitting the door.

"You had all sorts of plans for me," he said, his voice low and gravelly. "But you forgot who's in charge around here."

Instead of answering I just leaned back and relaxed in his grasp.

There was a soft clunk as he hung the cane on the doorknob, then my friend's other arm slipped around my waist. His beard was scratching my neck all to hell, purposely, he knew I wouldn't be able to cover it up tomorrow.

"What were your plans?" he asked in that gravelly voice as his hand left my throat and ran through my hair. "How were you going to seduce me?"

"Jesus, Greg..."

"All those years you surely thought of something..."

"I had a few ideas."

"Dinner and candlelight? That sounds like you." He chuckled and I heard some genuine enjoyment and affection in it. "Take your tie off."

"No," I answered just to see how he would react.

"Take your fucking tie off or I'm taking it off and gagging you with it."

My wine-colored silk tie joined the heap on the floor. Greg's long slender fingers fumbled at my shirt buttons.

"Jimmy, do you see any goddamn candles around here?"

"No." I don't know where the candle idea came from and I really didn't feel like arguing about it.

The unwatched television continued to play away in the unoccupied living room.

"That candle shit may have worked with your wives, but I'm hardly your fucking _wife_."

"No, you're not."

After the fourth button or so he stopped, pushed the collar open, and lightly traced those long fingers up and down from my neck to my sternum, relishing the fact it was driving me absolutely insane. Barely touching my skin yet it felt white-hot.

My breath hitched.

"Your pulse is racing, Dr. Wilson."

"Oh God..." I gasped, closing my eyes.

"My my, it doesn't take much to get you going. You're wives never did this for you, did they? I can tell just by looking at you."

"No, they didn't." It was the truth.

"You like this, don't you? _Say it_."

"Yes, I like it."

"Say it again."

"Greg, please, just–"

"Twelve years and three marriages, Jimmy. You've waited this long, you can wait a little longer. Now say it." He kissed my neck just needle me even more.

"Yes, Greg. I like it."

"Of course you do. You're not ready to go off like a bottle rocket because you're _lying_. Turn around."

In the soft flickering light I could see that self-satisfied grin and laser-beam gaze. He was still dressed in the same rumpled shirt and jeans from work that always looked like they had been slept in for two days.

"You're cute when you're all hot and bothered," he said, the grin never wavering.

"And you're a bastard," I told him, leaning into the door where he was still standing.

"I've been called worse."

"Are you happy now? Did you get what you wanted?"

"What do you think?"

Grabbing the scruff of his t-shirt and yanking him forward, I replied, "I think it's my turn."

I kissed him hard, finding his tongue and tasting bourbon.

For this first time that evening he shut up.


	9. Chapter 9

He was sleeping, one arm draped across my chest, chin digging into the crook of my neck. Greg's sleep habits being as erratic as his personality, he could be wide awake in five minutes or he could keep me pinned to the bed for the next five hours. I couldn't get up without disturbing him and since the building wasn't on fire I didn't really have a reason to move anyway.

It was all about control. He has to feel like he's in control. The month Foreman was put in charge of his department I sat back and watched as Greg was climbing the walls, three seconds away from strangling Foreman with the yo-yo string. It's very easy to trace it all back to the roots–Stacy. She chose the fate of his leg without his consent and now he'll live with it for the rest of his life. He'll be damned if anything like that will ever happen again. I suppose in many ways I can't blame him for his borderline control-freak ways .

Of course I'm not going to operate on his leg, but this current situation has brought out the fact that Gregory House is just as vulnerable as the rest of us mere mortals. Not that he would admit it in so many words. His manhandling of me before I barely crossed the threshold of the front door, not letting me look at him until he was damn good and ready speaks volumes by itself.

But I have to admit those hands of his can do some amazing things.

A sudden low grunt and Greg was moving, turning over and muttering incoherently. I was free to move again. No food in my stomach since lunch, I realized I was starving. Blindly navigating to the dresser, I tried my damndest to be careful and still smacked my toe hard enough to bring tears to my eyes. I managed to pull on a pair of sweatpants without killing myself, then felt my way to the door.

"Jimmy."

I stopped and waited. Nothing except the whispery sound of his breathing.

"Greg, you okay?" I said softly.

Silence.

My hand found the hallway light switch and flipped it on. In the pale light Greg didn't stir. He was on his side with his back more or less to the door. He was sound asleep.

Just hearing things. I closed the door.

Before dinner I made a pit stop to the bathroom. In the mirror I could see the right side of my face and neck looked like it had been attacked with a belt sander, punctuated by a hickey just high enough so it couldn't be camouflaged by a shirt collar. Great.

My coat, suit jacket and tie were still in a heap by the front door. I brushed them off and hung them up, my tie joining the keys in the coat pocket.

Ninety minutes and two roast beef sandwiches later I was sipping a beer and flipping through the channels when the bedroom door creaked open. Greg squinted in the light, then limped over to the couch. Baggy pajama bottoms were all he was wearing, and I'm pretty sure he didn't nearly trip and break his neck trying to find his way around in there. Without a word he sank in the couch and put an arm around my shoulder.

"You hungry?" I asked just to say something, wondering what was on his mind.

"Ssh, I'm _enjoying_ the moment," he said quietly, sinking back into the cushion. "Just let me sit here a while."

His earlier aggressiveness seemed to have packed it up and called it a night. Greg appeared as relaxed as I'd ever seen him. But I suppose great sex can a have a nice calming effect on a person, especially if he has every reason to be wound up to begin with.

After a few minutes he said in the same quiet voice, "If you could heat some water for coffee, that would be great."

Hardly able to say no, I filled up the kettle and put it over the flame. Back in the kitchen doorway I looked at the couch and was met with his cat-that-swallowed-the-canary gaze.

"What?" I stopped and leaned in the frame.

"You _are_ cute when you're all hot and bothered," Greg smirked.

"Is that with or without the choke hold?"

"I didn't hear you complaining. I thought all you nice Jewish boys liked it a little rough."

"Is that what you call this, a little rough?" I pointed to the whisker burns and hickey.

He snickered at the big purple blob on my neck. "I guess it could be called 'collateral damage'. Again, I didn't hear you complaining since you were too busy yelling out my name."

"You hollered out mine more than a few times," I pointed out.

"I never said I didn't," he responded with that calm voice that let me know he was still in control of his domain. "Maybe next time I should gag you with that tie."

"You have to catch me first."

"I caught you before, and something tells me you're not going to try too damned hard to get away."

I had to laugh. He was right, of course.

Glancing over at the stove, I said, "The water's boiling."


	10. Chapter 10

His leg began to hurt and spasm, so he stretched out on the sofa with his head in my lap while waiting for the Vicodin to hit his bloodstream. 

"I hope this doesn't kill your 'enjoying of the moment'," I said.

"Depends on which moment you're talking about," Greg responded absently, though there was a trace of a smile.

"I'm not talking about your leg, Greg."

"You're a lot of things, Jimmy, but stupid enough to ask me if I'm enjoying the throbbing in my leg isn't one of them," he said, then clasped a hand over mine as if to prove his point. If he thought for a second I really was referring to his pain I'd be kneecapped with the cane and tossed out the nearest window without the benefit of said window being opened first.

"You want some more coffee?"

"No." Another small spasm. "_Goddammit_, I knew this would happen."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"Well, I guess I was a little too carried away to think about it. Ow, _fuck!_" More spasms. Sweat began to bead along his hairline.

Carefully pushing my friend up, I said, "Hold on, I've got a heating pad somewhere."

The heating pad was for after particularly long days at the hospital when it felt like someone had tied all the muscles between my neck and shoulder blades into intricate knots. I'll be damned if the thing didn't pay for itself the first night I used it. After a few minutes of digging I found it buried under some tee shirts in the dresser. Two pillows came along with the pad.

A lamp had to be unplugged to accommodate the heating pad, but I'm sure seventy-five extra watts of light were on the bottom of Greg's priority list at the moment. I set it on high, and while waiting for it to warm up I took one of the pillows. "This is probably going to hurt, Greg." I held up his leg as gently as I would hold a kitten and set the pillow under his knee. It hurt, he gritted his teeth. The heating pad gingerly went over his scarred thigh.

"Do you need another pill?" I asked, picking up the second pillow.

He shook his head. "I've already had two. Sometimes it just takes a while when it's bad."

The only thing worse than seeing Greg depressed was seeing him in pain and knowing there wasn't a damned thing I could about it. I resumed my place on the sofa, putting the second pillow under his head. If he was going to be suffering for a while the least I could do was make it little more comfortable for him.

His hand found mine again.

"Damn, that heating pad feels nice," he said.

"Is it helping?"

"I didn't say it was _helping_, I said it felt nice," Greg answered with a pained chuckle as his leg twitched again.

"Why did you do this to yourself?"

"There's only one chance for a first time, Jimmy. Like I said, I got carried away." I felt his hand squeeze mine with affection.

"Was it worth it, Greg?"

"What are you talking about, you or the pain?"

"The pain."

"Ask me again later when the pills kick in and I'm too stoned to care." He glanced up and met my eyes. "But if it makes you feel any better, I still respect you."

"Gee, thanks," I deadpanned over his laugh. "Despite the leg spasms you can still find just the right thing to say."

"Never let it be said that I can't get the job done under difficult circumstances," he remarked, rubbing his thigh and adjusting the heating pad. The Vicodin must finally be finding its mark. "It's too bad my leg can't keep up with the rest of me."

"You can't keep doing this to yourself or your leg," I curtly told him.

"Thank you for the diagnosis, Dr. Wilson, but I think I've already figured that one out."

"Just thought you'd want a second opinion, Dr. House."

"I couldn't pass up the opportunity."

I looked down at his blue eyes. "Is that you or the Vicodin talking?"

"Both," he grinned. "And maybe the heating pad." As I rolled my eyes, he added, "Hey, you asked."

"I know," I sighed, wondering if I was ever going to learn, and what the hell Greg would do if I did. Several minutes passed in silence. "How's the leg?"

"Feeling better, actually. The spasms have died down."

"You should go back to bed."

"Give me a few more minutes. I hope you don't mind but this heating pad is coming to bed with us."


	11. Chapter 11

"What are you going to tell them?" Greg asked in a polite, innocent voice that could only mean there was something unscrupulous on his mind.

"Tell who _what?_" I slathered shaving cream on my chin.

"Are you brave enough to tell the truth," he said, leaning to the bathroom doorway, "or are you going to tell everyone you wash your face with Brillo pad and wear a scarf all day?"

"We'll see if anyone asks first. In the meantime I'll have to see if I can find my turtlenecks."

"Are you going to pull your turtleneck over your nose?"

"You did this to me, Greg, _on purpose_," I reminded him, trying not to add a few razor nicks to go along with the rest of the souvenirs all over my neck and chin. "Are you brave enough to own up to it?"

"We'll see if anyone asks first," Greg smirked, obviously enjoying the sight me shaving over the hickey.

"And if they do?"

"Let's see, we have a handsome divorced male doctor living with another male doctor. Both of these doctors have been known to be switch hitters. The older doctor has a scruffy beard." He paused to scratch his chin and drive his point home. "The younger doctor shaves every day like clockwork. Now, these doctors have been roommates for a few months, and suddenly the younger doctor shows up covered with whisker burns and hickeys. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure that one out, Jimmy. They won't _have_ to ask."

"And if they do ask?" I pressed, meeting the reflection of his eyes in the spotty mirror.

A mischievous grin joined our reflections. "Which sounds more scandalous, that I'm sleeping with a co-worker or that I'm sleeping with someone of the same gender?"

"How about a co-worker of the same gender?" I offered, rinsing off the razor.

"That has a nice ring to it."

"Or maybe a doctor of the same gender?"

"That sounds even better. I just love a juicy scandal."

"You would really say that?"

"I could tell people you wash with a Brillo pad." Greg suddenly took on a stoic look. "But then everyone would think you're weird _and_ bisexual."

* * *

"How's the leg?" I asked, digging for the orange juice. It tried to hide behind the Pepsi. "Any more spasms?" 

Greg slathered a bagel with strawberry cream cheese and said, "No. I've fallen in love with that heating pad."

"I'm never getting it back, am I?"

"Nope." Pink cream cheese was smeared on his lower lip.

"Why didn't you ever use a heating pad before?" I settled into a chair and snatched a bagel, pleased to see his leg wasn't bothering him much this morning.

"Because I never had a heating pad to use before."

Reaching for a knife, I sighed and said, "Consider it a gift."

"You're too kind."

"And you're too much."

My friend tilted his head knowlingly. "Judging from that smirk I have to say that was a compliment."

"It was," I said.

"A compliment for what?" He drank some coffee and waited.

Caught off guard, I stumbled for an answer. I didn't expect to be questioned about my casual little remark. "I dunno..." Unable to think of another word I just shrugged.

"A lot of people have called me a lot of things, Jimmy," he smiled. "'Too much' is hardly the worst of them."

"I know," I smiled back.

"Yeah, well, let me know if you ever figure out what 'too much' means."

"You got it."

"Hmmm..." Chin in hand, he looked me in the eye. "Shamelessly flirting with me? If I didn't know any better I'd have to say you were trying to score some brownie points. Afraid of being replaced with a heating pad?"

"If you and your leg can take it," I replied between bites, "I'm willing to share you with your beloved heating pad."

"Ah-ha, you _are_ shamelessly flirting with me," he chuckled.

"Should I just sit here and stare at the walls?" I drained my orange juice.

"Not unless you want to be in the doghouse and sleep alone tonight."

"I don't," I said simply.

"I didn't think so." Greg stared at my shirt. "No turtleneck?"

"I couldn't find them. Can I borrow one of yours?"

"No," he grinned. "Wear your blue tie. I think I have scarf that will match it."


	12. Chapter 12

Cuddy frowned at the navy blue scarf around my neck. "Is it that cold in here?"

"I think I might be coming down with something," I lied. "Better to be safe than sorry."

"Yes, Dr. Wilson is so _delicate_," Greg smirked as he limped down the corridor with me.

"Is that a rash?" She stared at the right side of my face.

"Just a reaction to some new aftershave. It'll go away."

"We'll see about that," said Greg with a short laugh.

"And how about _you_, Dr. House," the Dean of Medicine thankfully shifted her attention away from me. "How are you feeling today?"

"I am utterly _fantastic_, thank you," he answered with a smile that was one hundred percent genuine.

"That's nice to hear," she said. "Just be careful you don't catch whatever your friend here seems to be coming down with."

"I gave it to him to begin with," he responded, looking right at me. "Maybe if I'm lucky I'll get it back."

The three of us stopped dead in the corridor. I desperately tried to disguise my laughing fit as a coughing fit while Greg pasted an expression of idiotic casualness on his face. Our boss split her crystal-blue gaze between us as if Greg and I had suddenly grown two heads each.

"Are you two okay?" Cuddy asked, furrowing her brow.

"We're just fine," Greg answered flatly. I stood behind him, trying to stifle my laughter. Easier said than done.

"If you're really sick I need to know."

"Dr. Wilson and I are fine, Dr. Cuddy."

"You said you gave him something. Do I even want to know what you really meant by that?"

"Probably not."

"Fine. I'm not going to ask."

"Your prerogative," Greg said in the same remarkably casual tone, still as a statue.

"Thank you for reminding me," Cuddy sighed, exasperated.

"You're welcome, Dr. Cuddy. This conversation has been stimulating, but I need to see if Tom's tox screen has come back yet."

"Tom?" she puzzled.

"Yeah, my patient, Thomas Lang." Greg reminded her, then started towards the elevator.

"You actually know the name of your patient?" She was stunned, or at least pretended to be.

"It makes it easier to keep track of them, don't you think? I usually try to keep the male and female ones separate. Or should we give them all a number and set it up like the Dewey Decimal System?" he spoke over his shoulder as Cuddy shook her head and continued down the corridor.

"That was subtle," I said, joining my friend at the elevator. "Are you going to write our names on the bathroom wall now?"

"Got a magic marker?"

"Greg..."

"You forget, Jimmy, I have no shame. Besides, you were the one cracking up over there."

"Yeah, well, what you said was funny and Cuddy's reaction was hilarious. I couldn't help it."

"So what exactly are you complaining about?" he asked as we stepped on the elevator.

"Well, if you don't mind, can we keep this low-key for a while? I kept waiting for you to tell Cuddy we were going to get married."

"Would that make you James House or me Greg Wilson?" he chuckled, and I had to laugh right along with him. "Jimmy, it's not like I'm going to jump you in the one of the operating rooms."

"I know that."

"Not unless you want me to, and there's not a heart transplant going on in there..."

"Greg, for crying out loud..."

The elevator dinged and we got out, heading towards his office. Mercifully, the halls were relatively empty.

"You going to wear that scarf all day?" Greg asked in that damnable casual tone.

"No, and since there were no turtlenecks to be found or borrowed, I guess I'll have to put a band-aid on my neck," I said, trying to sound impassive and completely failing at that simple little task. The apathy just couldn't flow out me the way it did out of Greg, especially when I really needed it to.

"Why don't you just wear a sandwich board with 'I Have A Hickey' emblazoned on it and get it over with."

"Just wait," I said as we stopped at his office door. "Your turn will come soon enough."

"Is that a threat?" he asked.

"It's a promise."

"I'm holding you to it," Greg smiled, then took the scarf from my neck and wrapped it around his. He turned my head to the side and admired his handiwork. "What's it going to be?"

"What do you mean?"

"Would you like me to continue to be 'too much', or would you rather settle for 'not enough'?"


	13. Chapter 13

The band-aid and lame excuses didn't fool anybody, but at least they were polite enough to keep their mouths shut about it. Finally, Foreman stared at me a little too long and I locked myself in my office. I was able to catch up on my paperwork without interruption so the day wasn't a total loss.

But I have to admit I wouldn't have minded a little office visit from you-know-who.

Greg had already left by the time I packed up my files and hunted down my keys. I wondered if he was all weirded out again, waiting behind the door. I'd just have to see if I was greeted with an arm around my neck and hope he didn't decide to really gag me with my silk tie.

No bizarre greetings awaited at 221B. Greg was in the kitchen stabbing a potato to death.

"I think you missed a spot," I said from the doorway.

"How'd it go today?" he asked without looking up. He began to slaughter another potato so they would be slightly overcooked in the middle, just the way he likes them. I've never been asked if I liked them that way, and I don't ever expect to be. "Any strange looks from your fellow doctors?"

"A few."

"Only a _few_?" he smirked. "I'll have to try harder next time."

"Just wait until it's your turn. We'll see how _you _like it," I said, stepping up to the counter.

"Let's see if you can deliver on your promise first," Greg replied and held out the pan of potatoes. "Here, make yourself useful."

Dutifully, I stuffed the pan into the oven and set the timer for forty-five minutes. "Just potatoes for dinner?"

"And Kilbasa. I'll throw that on the stove later."

"Sounds good. But what should we do for the time being?" I raised my eyebrows in question.

"Oh, I could suggest we watch CNN or play backgammon," he said, eyes glinting in the kitchen light. "Call me crazy, but somehow I get the feeling you don't have board games on your mind."

"No, I don't."

"I figured as much."

"You don't even own a backgammon set."

"So? Would you want to play right now even if I did?"

"Not hardly," I chuckled, then stepped up and put my arms around his neck. "Would you?"

"I don't know how to play," Greg confessed as he slipped his free hand around my back. "We'll just have to amuse ourselves with another game."

"Sounds good to me," I said, and a light brush against his mouth turned into a deep full-fledged kiss as both of us tried to pull the other closer. Time stopped, at least it seemed that way, as Greg returned every bit of emotion and craving I put into it.

He broke away first. "Damn, Jimmy, let me breathe a little, would ya?"

"Can't live up to your title, Greg?" I teased between a few more quick kisses.

"Title?" Greg puzzled.

"Of being 'too much'."

"It'll take more than a make-out session to strip me of that title."

Quietly laughing, I mused at how much his mood had changed between last night and tonight, from aggressively erratic to cool and calm. I suppose that change could be summed up in one simple sentence: He got exactly what he wanted. It's fair to say I got what I wanted too, though not exactly how I pictured getting it. But if life was actually that easy and predictable we'd all die of boredom.

"Besides," he continued, "you never would have come out of the spare bedroom if you really and truly thought I was 'not enough'."

"Probably not," I answered truthfully. "You told me that a lot of people have called you a lot of things. I'm sure 'dull' wasn't one them."

"Lots and lots of things," he said absently, almost like he was talking to himself. "But I don't recall that word coming up. 'Not enough' never came up either." His blue eyes met my brown eyes. "Tell me something, Jimmy."

"Tell you what?"

"That I'm not going to be wife number four."

"Don't worry," I said, cracking up. "If it's ever made legal in this state and I try to drag you to the alter, feel free to shoot me and put me out of my misery."

"You said you didn't regret your marriages."

"I don't. I regret my divorces, and the thought of divorcing you is enough to turn my hair white."

"Okay then. Neither of us has nothing to worry about that department."

"Nope." I looked at the timer. "I hope the heating pad is ready because after dinner I'm going to show you and your leg that I can deliver on my promises."


	14. Chapter 14

"Well?" Greg asked, staring up at me.

"Well _what_?" I replied, propped up on my elbow, staring right back at him.

"Are you going to keep your promise and dazzle me," he said, grinning mischievously, "or are you going to lay there and stare at me to death?"

"You're a real romantic, you know that?" I chuckled.

"Mmm...like I'm supposed to believe that's bothering you _now_."

"I was just making an observation, Greg, not a suggestion." I brushed some hair out of his eyes.

"Were you really going to suggest something or am I reading too much into this?

"Just an observation. I swear."

"Oh wait, I get it." Greg enveloped my hand with both of his. "This is the Jimmy Wilson approach. No hiding behind doors for you, but since I beat you home tonight that kinda cost you the element of surprise even if you wanted to. So now it's on to Plan B. Am I right?"

"Sort of. I didn't think you and your leg would appreciate being dragged all over the living room." My hand shook loose from his and started to unbutton his shirt.

His long fingers lightly brushed my cheek. "I see. Thinking of me. That's so _you_, Jimmy. You're so damned _polite_."

"Yeah, well, one of us has to be," I said, then shut him up with a kiss which he was more than willing to return. The last button came undone, and I felt him shudder as my palm skirted across his belly, his skin smooth and warm.

"Please, Jimmy...,"Greg moaned as everything around us disappeared.

* * *

"What time is it?" he muttered into a pillow. 

"Almost ten-thirty."

"Is that _all_?"

"If it makes you feel any better, it's midnight somewhere in the world." I listened to him chuckle for a bit, then turned toward the long shadow outlined by the pale glow of the alarm clock and added, "How's the leg?"

"It's starting to hurt," he grumbled, slapping around the night stand. "Why is it always so fucking dark in here?" The lamp came on, blinding us both for a moment. More groping on the night stand. "Dammit, I left my pills in the kitchen."

I reached to the floor and snagged my boxers. "Hang on, I'll get them."

He reached down and grabbed his own boxers and jeans. "I'll come with you. Putting the 'bi' in 'bisexual' makes a man thirsty for a beer."

* * *

Greg was well into his second beer, lounging barechested and sideways on the sofa with his legs stretched across my lap before he asked, "So, did you keep your promise?" 

I cast a suspicious glance at him. "You tell me," I said, feeling the denim of his jeans gently graze my legs. The jeans were so I couldn't see the scar.

"Let's see, you managed not to kneel on or kick my leg. You get brownie points for that." A pause for a sip of beer. "But right now I'm too lazy to up and look in a mirror. So...?"

I just grinned and finished off my second bottle.

"Is that a _yes_?"

I reached over and tilted his head, gloating over my own handiwork. "Collateral damage. I guess that makes us twins now."

"Hmph. Grow a beard and maybe someday we can call it even."

"Why don't you just shave. Or would that be too easy?"

"Too easy," he answered. "Anyway, I like a man who follows through on his promises."

Raising my eyebrows, I asked, "In a personal sense or in a business sense?"

"Both, actually, but right now I'm talking personal. You're not afraid to leave your mark on me, so to speak."

"Well, it's not like you can make me take it back or anything," I said with a laugh.

"True," Greg smiled. "But you would have done it anyway, with or without your so-called promise to hold you to it."

"Are we still talking about hickeys here?"

"Hickeys and promises."

"Am I going to get kicked back into the spare bedroom?"

"Jimmy, I'm not–"

"Okay, okay. The answer is yes, I would have done it anyway."

"Really? Why?" he asked, watching me, looking genuinely intrigued.

"Because I can," I answered simply.

He grinned. "That's as good a reason as any."

"And because you liked it," I added.

"Even better."

"If you say so."

"I know so. Welcome to my world."


	15. Chapter 15

Greg came limping to the table freshly shaved and wearing his light blue turtleneck. I pretended to ignore him and read the paper. He saw through me in about a millisecond.

"Go ahead and say it. You know you want to."

I peered over the headlines. "You get to wear a turtleneck and I don't?" I said, making a mental note to go shopping for some damn turtlenecks at lunch.

"I never said you couldn't," he said, pouring a bowl of Cheerios. "I just said you couldn't borrow one of mine. Besides, you can't sit there and say you expect me to play by the rules. Not with a straight face, anyway."

"Do you always change the rules whenever it suits you?"

"No, I just make them up as I go along. It's more fun that way."

"How am I supposed to keep track?" I asked.

"That's not my problem," Greg smirked.

"Gee, thanks."

"You're welcome. You haven't run screaming into traffic yet so I'm guessing you're not all that shaken up about me and my rules," he said, then chowed down on his cereal.

"Can't say that I am."

"Of course not. You can't sit there and say _that_ with a straight face if you didn't actually mean it. That's one of the things you like about me, or rather _love_ about me."

"You think?" I finished off my toast and cold coffee.

Greg smiled and gave me one of his patented laser-beam stares. "I _know_. All those years of trying to be a good husband to your good little wives didn't work. Now you hook up with someone like me, the rules as you knew them have gone out the window, and I'll be damned if you can't get enough of it. The good girls couldn't satisfy you so now it's up to the bad boy to give you what you want."

He polished off the cereal and set the bowl aside.

"So...what do I want?" I asked, forgetting about the newspaper and everything I read in it.

"You don't want to be the husband and provider anymore. For now you're perfectly content to be the _partner_. What's yours is yours and what's mine is mine and all we share is the bed." He paused to pour himself some coffee. "Feel free to deny anything," Greg added without looking up.

I couldn't deny any of it because it was all true.

"So how did a nice doctor like you and a crippled middle-aged jackass like me end up together?"

"I can't explain it, Greg," I replied, leaning on the table. "But I'm sure you have an idea or two."

"Hmmm...I can't list all the reasons why you do what you do, however, I think I've narrowed down at least one reason why you're sitting at my table." He sounded very nonchalant and rested his chin in his hand.

"Let's hear it."

"It's the same reason why you came here after all your divorces, Jimmy."

"Let's hear it."

"You can't stand to be alone."

Greg may hate people but that didn't diminish his ability to read them in any way. His sharp insights never failed to astonish me.

"You're right," I said quietly. "I can't stand to be alone."

"Why not?"

"Living alone makes me feel alone and I hate feeling like that."

"You always came here because you knew I'd never turn you away, and because you knew I'd always be home when you came by."

"Yes."

"Just having another living breathing human being under the roof with you makes you feel better."

"Yes."

"Okay then," he said, chin still in hand, looking amused at his ability to read me like a take-out menu. "As long as we're on the same page here."

"Do you always have to cut to the bone like that?"

"Don't you want a lover who _understands_ and _knows_ the real you?"

"Just as much as you do," I said. "I can't stand to be alone and you were tired of being alone. So I guess we are on the same page."

Greg didn't flinch. "Don't start spouting off that we're soulmates and how it was meant to be or I'm going to have to whack you across the shin with my cane."

"But that's exactly what our horoscopes predicted," I teased.

"Jimmy, your shin and my cane. When you least expect it, expect it."

"I'll have to take back the heating pad," I said.

"And I'll have to make sure you wear band-aids and turtlenecks all summer," he countered stoically, meaning every word of it.

"All right, all right." I held up my hands. "You win. Truce?"

"For the moment," he grinned. "We'll see how it goes tonight."


	16. Chapter 16

_A/N: I'm basing Wilson's bout of shingles on my own experience. It wasn't pretty._

* * *

"Don't you have any work to do, Greg?" 

"Nothing that can't wait. Besides, I thought you might be _lonely_," he said as he sank into the chair.

"No clinic duty?" I eyed him and the door, half-expecting Cuddy to come barging in at any moment.

"Not today," Greg beamed as if that was greatest thing he'd heard all year, and maybe it was. "What about _you_, Jimmy? How are _you_ doing today?"

"Fine, thanks," I answered, wondering what the hell he was up to now. "I think I may have pulled a muscle in my back."

"I'm sorry to hear that," he said. "You're a good man, Jimmy, has anyone ever told you that?"

"Not lately."

"That's too bad. A nice guy like you, I'd think you would hear that all the time."

I couldn't help but remember what happened the last time he was in my office and in a weird mood. I was a little leery at being set up for a sequel.

"In any case," he continued, tilting his head, "I just wanted to tell you that. No band-aids today. Did the hospital run out?"

Absently, my hand went up to my neck. Greg saw it and smiled.

"I just forgot about it," I lied.

"Sure you did. Or could it be that you're ready, willing and able to tell the world who's putting that spring in your step."

"Sooner or later," I said. "Nobody's asked me yet."

"Hopefully I'll be in the same room when someone does," Greg said, the smile replace by a thin smirk. "I hope it's Cuddy, don't you?"

* * *

If Greg's dreams about outing ourselves to at least one person in the hospital were halfway serious, they were dashed for the time being. My pulled muscle wasn't a pulled muscle. Two days after that conversation I came down with a full-blown case of the shingles. It came complete with a glorious blistering rash that covered the left side of my stomach and back, and pain so bad I couldn't stand up straight. Needless to say, Greg quarantined me in the spare bedroom. 

"How are you feeling?" Greg asked, stopping by during his lunch hour. He set a glass of water on the night table and settled at the edge of the bed.

"Like hell," I muttered truthfully. I haven't felt this awful since I had a bad bout of the flu when I was sixteen. This beat the flu by a country mile

"You're running a fever. Have you taken your pills today?"

"I've been asleep most of the day."

"Here." He reached for the prescription bottle beside my bed and shook out one of the absurdly huge blue anti-viral pills I had to choke down twice a day. Just looking at the damn thing made my stomach twist into a knot. "Take it."

Somehow I managed to swallow it and not gag. Exhausted, I fell back on the pillow. At least when I was laying down the pain wasn't too bad.

"Have you eaten anything?" he asked, taking the glass back.

"A little bit of cereal after you left."

Brushing some hair from my forehead, he said, "You need to eat something when you take those pills. I'll bring you some crackers."

"I'm not hungry."

"I didn't ask if you were hungry," Greg said as he left the room and came back with a box of saltines.

"I can barely _walk_ let alone think about eating," I moaned, looking at the box.

"It's not like you have the plague for crying out loud." He handed me a cracker. "Eat it and I'll shut up."

I snatched it and nibbled on it for a while. It tasted like sawdust and settled in my stomach like a rock. "Happy now?"

"Ecstatic. You going to be okay?"

"I don't need a babysitter. Go back to work. I'll be fine." All I wanted to do was sleep.

"You're eating something when I get back tonight," he told me. He may have said something else but I was too tired to listen. I closed my eyes for a second and when I opened them it was dark outside.


	17. Chapter 17

"Greg?" I called out. Why the hell was it so dark outside? The bedroom door was open. CNN was babbling away on the television.

Footsteps, then he was silhouetted in the doorway. The light flicked on and I wasn't ready for it. "_God!_" I yelped, covering my eyes. "Warn me next time, will ya?"

"Welcome back, Sleeping Beauty." He limped to the bed and sat down.

"Jesus...what time is it?" My entire body felt like it had been steamrolled. Twice.

"Almost seven."

"_At night?_"

"At night," he echoed, then felt my forehead. "You still have a fever. We need to take care of that. Wait here." Like I was going to be swinging from the ceiling.

Clanging from the kitchen, cabinets being opened and shut. I suddenly felt restless and kicked the covers off. The room was stuffy and stale. I didn't want to be in there anymore. Standing up was a royal nightmare. It felt like a branding iron was being held to my back.

"What the hell are you doing?" Greg glared at me as I staggered to the table. "Jimmy, go back to bed."

"I've been in bed all damn day," I said, as if that was a perfectly acceptable reason for me to be up when I really shouldn't have been, but I had to get out of there for a while.

"Christ..." he muttered under his breath, stalked out the room and reappeared with the prescription bottle, which was smacked down on the table.

Ten minutes later a glass of water, a small bowl of beef-vegetable soup and some ibuprofen joined my prescription. Greg had to get the giant blue pill out since I was too weak to open the damn bottle.

I glanced at the soup, then at him.

"You're eating at least half of that," he said stonily. "I don't care how long it takes."

I choked down the pills, then started on the soup. I wasn't the least bit hungry and ate slowly, but Greg seemed satisfied for the moment. The ibuprofen dulled the pain a little.

"I would have brought that to you. All you had to do was wait."

"I had to get up."

"No, you didn't."

"Okay, I _wanted_ to get up," I sighed, wishing he'd quit trying to talk me to death about it. "Can you wait until I'm done here to punish me?"

"Shingles is punishment enough," he told me. "Cuddy was asking about you."

"What did you tell her?" I asked between slurps of soup.

"Nothing she doesn't already know about shingles. It's a bitch but you'll be fine. She wanted to know what kind of aftershave causes hickeys and whisker burns and why I wore a turtleneck three days in a row."

I dropped the spoon. He picked it up and got me another one, never losing his grin.

"She asked us to keep the hickeys down to a minimum. I told her we'd think about it. In the meantime she hopes you feel better soon."

"Thank you," I remarked dryly. The bowl of soup was endless. I pushed it away. "I can't eat anymore."

It was pushed back. "Five more spoonfuls."

"Three."

"This isn't a negotiation. Five."

After what seemed like an eternity and a half, five more spoonfuls were in my stomach. Two thirds of the soup was gone and Greg was thankfully content with that. "You ate more than I thought you would," he smiled.

"Hooray for me."

"Soon this will all seem like a bad dream."

"God, I hope so." The pain was twisting up my back again. This was the kind of thing Greg had to live with every single day. I don't know he did it and I don't know if I could do it. His Vicodin addiction made a little more sense.

"Let's get you back to bed," he said, getting up, his voice pulling me out of my thoughts.

"I wanna watch some TV. Please." I looked up, giving him my best puppy-dog face. It worked.

He found a pillow and blanket and even sat on the other end of the sofa so I could rest my head on his left leg. For a while he just sat there, then he began to absently play with my hair. Maybe it was on purpose, maybe it wasn't, but that simple little gesture lulled me back to sleep.


	18. Chapter 18

It was still dark when the pain woke me up. I can tell you that I have never felt anything like it, ever. A red-hot poker shoved down my spine, only a thousand times worse.

I was shaking, a cold sweat broke out. I clawed at the night table, but the painkillers weren't there. They were in the kitchen. At that moment the kitchen may as well have been on Mars. But that's where the pills were. That's where the relief for my agony was. I had to get there.

Standing up straight was impossible. I shuffled to the doorway like a feeble invalid. By the time I got there my back muscles seized up, as if I wasn't deep enough in a pain-wracked hell already. All I could do was lean in the doorframe, panting and dripping sweat, and wait for my back to loosen up a little. The kitchen was around the corner, fifteen feet away. That knowledge was the only thing keeping me from dying on the spot.

Somehow I made it and was a tad too distracted to be proud of myself for finding the lightswitch. The pills were right there, but between the child-proof cap and my sweaty hands I couldn't get the fucking bottle open. I started to cry. The cap flew off and pills scattered everywhere. I tried to chew them and choked. Trying to get some water, the glass slipped and shattered on the floor.

I was reaching for another glass when I heard a voice behind me: "What the hell...?"

A hand grabbed me and turned me around. "Jimmy, my God," Greg said. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"_Pain...Jesus, the pain_...," I gasped, trying not to collapse all over the broken shards.

Finally a half dozen painkillers were in my mouth. Greg had to hold the glass of water because my hands were shaking too much.

"C'mon, I need you to walk with me. I can't carry you," he said. The spare bedroom was a hundred miles away. My back seized up again. I don't know how I made it. All I remember was hitting the bed.

Still shaking, the pain squeezing me like a vice. Through the haze there was something cool touching my face. It was a washcloth. Greg was telling me to relax. I ignored him and tried to concentrate on the wonderful cool something as the vice took it's time and eventually loosened its hold. I was still hurting, but at least it had settled down to a level where I didn't wish I was dead.

"Jimmy."

"What?" I muttered. I didn't feel like talking.

"Why didn't you call out? I would have heard you."

He was right. It hardly mattered now and I could care less. "The pain...it was unreal." My tee shirt was soaked through with sweat. I just wanted to sleep and forget everything.

"I'm staying home today," he said. "I can't leave you like this."

"Fine."

"How are you feeling?"

"Terrible."

My friend snickered a little. "Get some rest. I need to clean up a mess in the kitchen."

Pain was still trying to squeeze every last drop out of me. It was a long while before I could drift off. Even then I was still waking up every hour. Around eleven I ate six more painkillers and the anti-viral and finally settled into something that could be called sleep.

I woke up with a cry. Bad dreams. My back still hurt.

Greg materialized in the room. "Jimmy..."

"I'm okay." Hardly. I probably looked like death warmed over. I was all sweaty again.

The damp washcloth was back. I welcomed it with open arms.

"It's after four. You need to eat something. _Don't move_." He left before I could protest. The washcloth stayed my forehead.

Five minutes later he reappeared with a plate of toast balanced on a glass of ginger ale.

"Feeling any better?" he asked as he watched me eat.

"I'm not in agony so I suppose I have to say yes." The toast was too dry and tasted like cardboard. I ate it anyway.

"That should be the worst of it," Greg said, though he didn't sound totally convinced. Or maybe I was just hearing things.

"There's nothing that could make it any worse," I scowled, thinking of the screaming pain that woke me up in the middle of the night.

"You're probably right. Finish your toast." There was one more piece. I finished it and kept it down. Eating was a chore. I felt a million years old.

"Here." Four more painkillers and the anti-viral were in my hand. They joined the toast. "Go to sleep. If you need anything, you _call_ me. If I find you in the kitchen again, the shingles isn't going to be the only thing causing you pain."

He stood up, gathered up the dishes and limped out of the room.


	19. Chapter 19

Sleep. Pain. Pain. Sleep. After a while it all became a blur.

Didn't wake up again until well into the evening. I had no idea what day it was and by then I was beyond caring. Greg brought me a bowl of cereal and more painkillers. Three minutes after the bowl was taken away I was out like a broken light.

Woke up to a nice warm day, more back pain, and the wonderful discovery that the blistering rash had turned into one gigantic oozing mess. Disgusted, I pulled down my shirt and called for Greg.

"Hey there." He smiled from the doorway. "Feeling any better?"

"A little," I croaked, and it was the truth. I felt only half-dead instead of almost dead.

"How about some breakfast?"

"Sure."

"I'll see what I can find," he said, and came back with a plate of peanut butter toast balanced on a glass of milk.

"How's the rash?" Greg asked as he settled into his spot at the edge of the bed.

"You don't want to know," I frowned, washing down some more painkillers and the anti-viral before eating.

"Yes, I do."

"Please, not while I'm eating."

My appetite was returning. The toast and milk tasted good. Greg looked pleased as I drained my glass.

"You want anymore?" he asked as I handed him the dishes.

"No thanks. What I really want are some clean clothes and a shower." A look of concern clouded his face. "I gotta stand up sooner or later," I said as he scowled. "Five minutes to wash off the layer of grime and wash my hair. Seven minutes tops."

"Okay." My friend took the dishes and got me some clean clothes while I stumbled to the bathroom. Having enough painkillers in my system to knock out a horse made this trip a hell of a lot easier than my earlier escapade to the kitchen.

In the mirror I looked pale and drawn. I hadn't shaved in three days and my beard was starting to look like Greg's. I chuckled at the thought. The beard could wait, shaving wasn't exactly at the top of my priority list.

The shower felt great, and I was able to throw in a quick brushing of my teeth before all the standing up took its toll. At least I was able to get dressed before my back seized up and I had to call Greg to help me back to bed.

"Hold it," he said before throwing the blankets back over. He lifted up my shirt and eyeballed the mass of blisters. "_Jesus Christ_."

"Thanks," I muttered, swatting his hand away and grabbing the covers.

"You need anything?" His fingers brushed across my cheek and neck.

"No."

"Okay. Try not to need anything during _General Hospital_, huh?"

"All right." I had done nothing but sleep for two days and the shower was still exhausting. He left the room. I rolled over and pretty much passed out.

Awake again. Still light outside. I was sick of the bed.

I heard "Jimmy, what is it?" as I staggered out of the spare bedroom.

"Nothing," I replied, shuffling to the sofa and collapsing on it. "Can I get a pillow and blanket?"

Greg grumbled a bit, however, I was soon curled up with him.

"What day is it?" I asked.

"Tuesday."

"What's on Tuesdays?"

"Nothing," he said dryly. It was still early enough that those damn soap operas were still on. "You shouldn't be up."

"I'm not up. I'm laying down."

"You know what I mean." If he was really mad that didn't stop him from putting his arm around me and clasping my hand.

"Since when did you care about a patient, Greg?"

"You're not my patient, Jimmy."

"What am I?"

Silence for a few beats, then he told me, "When I saw you in the kitchen, white as a sheet and sweating bullets, I knew you were suffering. You were in terrible pain and suffering. I never want to see you like that again. This whole experience should leave you with just a memory, that's all."

I was quiet and watched the soaps. He never let go of my hand.


	20. Chapter 20

All the soaps, _CSI_ reruns and A&E documentaries began to run together. Patchy memories of being led back to the spare bedroom. I was beginning to despise that room. I was sick of being sick, sick of feeling useless, but too drained to really think about it at any length. So I curled up and slept.

Woke up in the dark again, starving and thirsty. At least there was a pleasant surprise when I stumbled to the kitchen–I could actually stand up straight. The pain was dwindling down to something that was livable and would hopefully be history in the next few days.

I made quick work of a glass of orange juice and set a refill on the table. Then I made a dent in the Cheerios. It was quick, it was easy, it was food, and I wasn't feeling too picky at the moment. Halfway through the second bowl I heard the floorboards creak and the all-too-familiar tap of the cane.

He peered around the doorway, eyes still puffy from sleep, almost like he was expecting to see someone or something else. I braced for a tongue-lashing that never came.

"Mind if I join you?" Greg asked quietly, as if I was really going to tell him that he wasn't allowed to sit at his own table. He slid into a chair and gave me the once-over. "You're obviously feeling better."

"I am." I tried to sound nonchalant for fear of jinxing myself.

"You'll be okay by yourself tomorrow." More of a statement than a question.

"I'll be fine. You might want to get some more ibuprofen. I probably took half the bottle over the past three days."

"Will do. Back to work soon?"

"In the next two or three days," I said, chasing a few stubborn Cheerios around the bowl.

"The nurses will be glad to hear that," he smirked. "I'm sure they miss flirting with you."

I didn't respond and he smirked at that, too.

"Gonna tell them about your _special friend_, Jimmy?"

"I'm surprised you didn't."

"They won't believe me, so I'll leave that up to you. They might not believe you, either, but still, I want to be there to see the looks on their faces."

"Thanks."

"I think Foreman and Chase have been dying to ask about it, too. They're too afraid to ask me, so they're waiting patiently for you. If you don't hurry up and get better soon they're going to explode and I'm going to have to hire some new doctors."

"Again, thanks."

"You're welcome. How's the rash?"

"A mess." It was still oozing, I could feel it. I was almost afraid to look at it.

"I'll get some Calamine lotion. You're going to need it," he said stoically.

"Great. Is this ever going to end?"

"Eventually," Greg said. "Don't you like the spare bedroom anymore?"

"I never liked it to begin with," I reminded him, then closed up the cereal box.

"Hmmm...true. Just can't compare to the master suite, huh?"

"Nope," I answered with a laugh.

"Of course not." The smirk was back.

"Miss me, Greg?"

"Yes," he responded without hesitation. That was the Greg House equivalent of spilling his guts. He took two days off to look after me. Bringing a cool washcloth into the mix. Fixing my meals and making sure I ate them. Would he do that for anyone else? I seriously doubt it. Not to that extent, anyway.

_You're not my patient, Jimmy_.

He reached over and took my hand, rubbing the palm with his thumb. "A couple more days. Just take it easy."

"I will."

"Okay. Rinse out your dishes."

"Yes, dear."

He smiled. "Don't stay up too late. I need my beauty sleep."

"I won't," I said.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he said, standing up, then limping toward his bedroom.

"Greg..." I called after him.

"Hmm?"

"I really do hate that spare bedroom."

"I know," he grinned.


	21. Chapter 21

I woke up to the sound of Greg banging around the kitchen and the smell of his ultra-strong coffee. Too damned lazy to move, I didn't even open my eyes. Just laid there and listened to his morning routine. Then he stopped in my doorway. I still didn't move.

My back was to the door, but I could feel his stare, that heavy stare. Finally, I heard him limp away, the front door open and shut, and the motorcycle roar to life. The roar died away and I slipped back into a fitful sleep.

Up again at 11:30. Another day of nothing. Another day filled with pure unadulterated boredom. What a waste. I was ready to scream.

Tried to watch television, but my brain shut down and my eyes became more glazed than a church window. Nothing remotely interested me. The only thing that kept me from punching in the screen was the fact that the television wasn't mine to punch in.

I shuffled to the bathroom, feeling wobbly from the total lack of exercise, but I was definitely feeling human again. The rash was drying up and scabbing over, thank God for small favors. I took a nice long bath, shaved off the beard, and resolved to go back to work tomorrow, even if it was just a few hours. And I wasn't going to spend another night in the spare bedroom. I'd rather sleep on the front stoop than spend another minute in that dungeon.

My mood improved a little. I polished off the rest of the Cheerios, then made myself comfy on the sofa and read _The Alienist_. With all the sleep I still ended up dozing off. The next thing I knew, Greg was sitting on the edge of the coffee table with my book in his hand.

"You lost your place," he said, reading the back cover with what appeared to be sincere interest.

"I'm sure I can find it again," I smiled.

"What's an alienist?"

"That's what psychologists and psychiatrists used to be called. That's what the book says, anyway," I answered, sitting up.

"I call them quacks," Greg snorted as he tossed the book aside. "You shaved. Your skin isn't the color of cottage cheese anymore. Dare I say that James Wilson is on the mend?"

"If that's what Gregory House wants to say."

"Hungry?"

"Sure."

"How does pizza and beer sound?"

"Pizza sounds great." My mouth watered at the thought something besides toast and cereal. "But I'll stick to ginger ale for the time being."

"Your call," he said, then dialed the pizza place without even glancing at the numbers.

I put away only two slices to his five; my eyes were bigger than my stomach. The pizza was still pretty damn good. The ginger ale had flavor again. Hopefully Greg wouldn't eat all the leftovers for breakfast tomorrow. I choked down the last anti-viral pill with dinner.

For the first time in nearly a week I could sit up for a long stretch without my back declaring war. It was wonderful. It's amazing what you can miss when an illness comes out of thin air and knocks you flat on your ass.

We were watching an ancient Bogie and Bacall flick. I was lounging against him. His arm was around my shoulder, fingers lightly stroking my neck, very comforting.

"I'm going back to work tomorrow," I announced dramatically.

"I'm not going to stop you," he replied, as if he had been waiting all evening for me to say it. That was a possibility that couldn't be ruled out.

"And I'm never sleeping in that spare bedroom again."

"Then don't."

"I'm not. I just wanted to make that clear."

"You made it crystal clear, Jimmy. Anything else?"

"Not at the moment."

"Okay. Just let me know if there is."

There wasn't. Work was probably going to kill me tomorrow, so I figured I'd better be ready for it. I settled into the master suite. Greg--the damned sleepless wonder--stayed out in the living room. At three o'clock he still wasn't in bed. No sound of the television, no piano. I had to look. He was stretched out on the sofa, engrossed in _The Alienist_.


	22. Chapter 22

Work went well, all things considered. For most of the morning I was pretty busy, the workload didn't come back to bite me in the ass until early afternoon. I made the mistake of sitting down and suddenly felt like crawling under my desk for a nap. I was three seconds away from doing just that when Chase and Foreman paid me a not-entirely-unexpected visit.

"Shingles, huh?" Chase said with a lopsided grin.

"Yeah. Lucky me," I answered, wondering if they would get to the point in ten questions or less.

"Is it as bad as they say?" the Australian asked, thankfully losing the cheesy grin.

"No," I sighed. "It's even worse."

"It must have been bad for House to take two days off to look after you," Foreman said.

"Well, seeing as how I was in so much pain I couldn't walk, it was nice to have someone there to help," I said with a trace of irritation. Why did they have to do this now? Couldn't they wait one more day?

"But we're talking about _House_ here," Foreman continued. "Since when does that man take the time to look after anyone besides himself?"

"House is a doctor," I reminded them, as if they had forgotten their homework or something. "Doctors help sick people. That's what doctors do. But I'm sure you know that already."

"House goes miles out of his way to avoid even _looking_ at a patient," Chase spoke up. "Why is he suddenly so interested in someone with an illness he can diagnose in his sleep? Why would he spend two whole days with that?"

"You've been living with him for a while now," Foreman said. "You've been friends forever."

"Yeah, so?" I sighed, getting fed up with their habit of taking the scenic route to get to the damned point. "Am I breaking some obscure law or something? Are you finished with your interrogation because I'm tired and want to go home."

"Two days...," Chase muttered. "House just doesn't do that."

"Are you and House..._involved_?" Foreman asked. The room was suddenly filled with his disbelief.

I closed my eyes, inhaled deeply, and scraped together the last of my patience. "Yes, we're involved. Yes, we sleep together. Yes, we have the kind of super-fantabulous sex you two can only _dream_ about. And yes, Greg House spent two days looking out for me because he was concerned by the fact that I was hurting so bad I couldn't fucking _move_. House cares about another human being. I know the concept is utterly and completely mind-blowing, but you'll get used to it. Now is there anything else you have to know right this second? I'm not feeling well and really want to go home."

"Um...no," Chase stammered. "Sorry to bother you, Dr. Wilson."

Their white coats were a blur as they practically ran out the door.

* * *

All I really wanted was a nice quiet nap, but I knew that if I went to bed I'd never get up again. So I just sat on the sofa with some coffee and tried to follow _American Justice_. 

The book caught my eye. _The Alienist_ was on the table. A magazine subscription card marked his place. He finished a good third of the book last night. Maybe I could have it back by the end of the week.

The motorcycle pulled up to the curb. Keys rattled in the lock.

"Have some visitors today, Jimmy?" Greg asked before the front door was even closed.

"A couple of doctors came to see me," I said flatly. The caffeine was the only thing keeping me awake.

"What the hell did you say to them?"

"I just answered their questions."

"You shouldn't scare them like that," Greg said, limping to the sofa. "That's my job. What were they asking about?"

"Us."

"And...?"

"I'm sure they can handle it. Eventually. But there is something..."

"What?" he said, sitting down.

"Well, it's just that..." I bit my tongue to keep from laughing. "It seemed to me that Chase and Foreman weren't all that shocked by the fact that you and I sleep in the same bed. They were more shocked by the fact that you took two days off to look after me."

"You're kidding."

"No, Greg, I'm not. You can't make that stuff up."

"Why? I don't get it."

"Well, as Chase so eloquently put it, more or less, why would Dr. House waste two days his precious time looking after someone with an illness he can diagnose in his sleep?"

"That is a good question," he said with a faint smile. "You're not going to get all mushy and make me say it, are you?"

"No, not right now," I said with a faint smile of my own. "I'll just have to wait until Chase and Foreman are around again. Then they'll have to believe it."


	23. Chapter 23

I managed to keep my eyes open for another hour or so. A familiar voice told me to go lay down. I'm still not sure if that was Greg or not, not that it really matters now. Who else would it be, anyway. I was out before my head hit the pillow.

A loud clattering. The cane had slipped out of Greg's hand. Just an accident, but it seemed as loud as a cannon blast and scared the daylights out of me.

"Christ, Greg...you nearly gave me a heart attack," I gasped as the blood pounded in my ears.

No response, just his shadowy figure feeling his way to the bed, pulling back the covers and settling in. I flopped back on the pillow and turned my back to him, hoping sleep would come back quickly, hoping to feel a little more human in the morning. Police sirens wailed from somewhere, then faded away.

Several minutes of silence, then I felt him shift and turn over. He was looking at me. I could feel that stare, those blue eyes shining in the pitch black.

"Jimmy," he said in casual tone tinged with lasciviousness.

I opened my eyes and kept quiet. Nothing to look at in the dark room but I kept them open.

"I know you're awake."

I sighed. It was almost impossible to fool him. "What do you want, Greg?"

"Come here."

Too tired to move, so I stayed put.

"_Come here_."

With a grunt I moved over until a hand grabbed my shoulder and forced me on my back.

"Greg, please–"

"Ssshh...take it easy." His voice was barely a whisper, fingers tracing a path along my jaw. "Take it easy. I know you're tired, Jimmy. Just relax." More tracing, then he pulled me closer. "When I said I missed you being in here, I meant it."

"I know you did."

"Do you now? You're telling the truth, Jimmy, but you have no idea. You have absolutely no idea."

I rested my head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. One arm wrapped around my back while the other played with my hair, that nice little gesture he appeared to enjoy doing almost as much as I enjoyed receiving.

"You're a good man, Jimmy. I meant that too."

"I know."

"Good. Now go back to sleep."

* * *

It was my turn to play with his hair. 

Awake, still tired, but I wasn't going to move until I had to. The sun was creeping up and some light had made it through the windows. Color was peeking out from behind the shadows. It was supposed to be a warm sunny day. I was beginning to believe it.

Greg was stretched out on his left side, one leg poking out from under the covers, doing whatever he did in his dreams. No fitful sleep for him at the moment. I'd been awake for a while and he hadn't moved for at least twenty minutes. I managed to hook an arm around the back of his neck and began to carefully run my fingers through his dark, coarse hair. No movement. Greg was lost in dreamland. Good for him.

I thought about the day ahead and the work I still needed to catch up on. Patients to see, tedious paperwork that never ended and who knows what surprises might be lurking around the corner. Hopefully I wasn't as behind as I thought was and could catch up in the next day or two. I probably was, but could hope, nonetheless. Maybe I could finish the day without wanting to crawl under my desk.

His breathing hitched and he drew his knees up a bit. No sign of waking up just yet. Again, good for him. He needed the sleep a hell of a lot more than I did.

I wondered if he read any more of the book before coming to bed. I wanted it back.

More sunlight filled up the windows. Ninety minutes before the alarm was set to go off. That was fine with me. I wasn't in any hurry to get and mused over that thought as I continued to lightly run my fingers through his hair.


	24. Chapter 24

He opened his eyes, looked right through me, then fell back onto the pillow. Apparently Greg wasn't in any hurry to get up either.

The truth was out now. Foreman and Chase wouldn't be able to resist blabbing away to someone, anyone, and I couldn't stop them. It doesn't make me any less of a doctor than I was yesterday or the day before. I know what I am and I'm perfectly content with that. How many people-gay, straight, black, white or purple can say that? The whispers and the stares would die down eventually. I didn't really care. I could take it. Another juicy piece of gossip would come around sooner or later and our little affair would be a distant memory.

The alarm clock screeched, and Greg nearly jumped out of his skin. I half-expected the clock to be smashed to bits, but he simply reached over and turned it off without resorting to violence. Tomorrow the clock might not be so lucky. My old alarm clock was in the spare bedroom for back-up.

"Hey," I greeted him with a final brush of his hair.

"Hey yourself," he sighed, rubbing his eyes. "There should be a law."

I had to ask. "A law for what? Waking up in the morning?"

"Alarm clocks going off at all hours, going to work before noon, stuff like that."

"People get sick before and after noon, Greg, therefore we have to be there to help when they do."

"There should be a law against getting sick before noon and on weekends," he said, sitting up. "Everything would be so much easier. We could sleep in. We could have Saturdays off. Wouldn't that be great?"

"Sure, but life doesn't work that way. "

"I know, but a guy can dream." He limped to the bathroom without turning around.

* * *

The hospital was strangely quiet. Only a few people milling about, not the zoo it usually was. It was impossible to tell whether it was just a rare lull or the calm before the storm. Maybe everyone just decided to wait until after lunch to see a doctor about their ailments. Maybe they would jam the place on Monday at 12:01pm. 

"Catch up day?" Greg asked with complete sincerity as we walked down the corridor.

"Pretty much," I answered. "Probably tomorrow too."

"_Hmph_. Paperwork can wait."

"I missed four days," I reminded him, pushing the elevator button. "I hate paperwork and filing as much as the next guy, but if I don't get caught up now, I never will."

"That never bothered me."

"It bothers _me_. If you have some free time, you're more than welcome to come by and help. I'll save you a nice big stack. We can keep each other company."

"The day Carmen Electra invites me to go skinny dipping in her Jacuzzi is the day I'll think about helping you with your paperwork," he grinned. "Wait...what the hell am I saying? Maybe if you're nice, Carmen will let you tag along and watch."

"You're too kind."

"No, I'm too much. But you already know that," he said as we stepped on the elevator. The grin stayed put.

"My patients would probably feel better knowing that I'm up-to-date on their files," I said pointedly.

"Imagine that. Does that apply only to the Oncology department? You might want to let the brain surgeons in on that fascinating concept."

"Greg, I'm just saying–"

Jimmy, _I'm_ just saying that I'm the last person to tell you how to do your job. Do what needs to be done. I can't, and won't, stop you."

The elevator opened and we made our way to our respective offices.

"Believe me," I said with a trace of anger that wasn't aimed at him, "I didn't ask for shingles."

"Somehow I have the feeling everyone who has had shingles says that," he responded.

He paused in front his office and looked down the corridor. Cameron and Chase were marching toward us, their white coats fluttering like capes.

"My crew, coming for my brilliant guidance," Greg smirked. I had no idea if that was a serious statement or not.

"Okay, I'll see you later." I stepped away, then felt a tug at my sleeve.

"Not so fast, Dr. Wilson," he said, and pulled me into a long, deep kiss right there in the middle of the corridor.

That self-satisfied grin was there when he broke away. His gaze shifted to his underlings and I followed it. Cameron and Chase were frozen in their tracks, jaws slack and open. Their eyes were so big I almost expected their eyeballs to fall out and roll every which way.

"I'd like to remind you of something," Greg said before I could get a word in. "Remember who chased after who to begin with. Don't take too long in playing catch up because you know exactly what you're missing."


	25. Chapter 25

At least I managed to stay at the hospital two hours longer than I did yesterday, before the fatigue hit again and the rash began to itch. I tried to work through it, but when the visions of starting bonfires with my paperwork began to fly around my head, I took it as a cue to pack it up and call it a night. The glaring headlights and insane drivers of the Garden State did nothing for my less-than-stellar spirits on the way home. By the time I turned onto my street, my mood was such that any hapless pedestrian who might be unlucky enough to stand between me and 221B ran the risk of meeting a violent and bloody end.

I stomped through the front door and into the kitchen, grabbed the brandy and slugged down a glass. As I was pouring a second glass, the cane lightly tapped my leg and an arm slipped around my waist.

"That's _my_ brandy," Greg said.

"I'll get some more," I said, making short work of the second glass, and I don't even like brandy to begin with. It was closest and that's what I chose.

"I know you will," he said, resting his chin on my shoulder. "Did we have a bad day, Dr. Wilson?"

"Not bad," I sighed. "Just...endless. Sometimes it seems like it never ends."

Wrapping his arm tighter, he said, "Poor, poor Jimmy. If you're not sick, you're buried in forms that require your special signature. How's a man supposed to do all that and find time to flirt with the nurses?"

"It's not just a job, it's an adventure." Enough alcohol. I set the glass in the sink, wishing I had picked the scotch instead.

"Did you get caught up?" he asked.

"A little bit. I'm such a lucky guy that I get to go back and do it all again tomorrow."

"Mmmm...a thrill a minute," he said with a soft chuckle. "Is that all you're upset about?"

"I'm still fatigued all to hell and the damn rash is starting to itch." I twisted out of his grip and leaned into the corner of the counter. "Why? Should I be mad at something else?"

"Yes."

"What am I supposed to be mad at?"

"You should be mad at me, but you're not. Now why is that?"

"Wait...I don't understand," I said with a frown. "Why am I supposed to be mad?"

Greg stood simply with his hands folded on the cane like he was about to give an important speech. "Has shingles affected your short-term memory, because I distinctly remember giving you a big, sloppy wet kiss in front of our esteemed colleagues this morning."

"I remember that too."

"And that kiss didn't bother you?" He smiled and some disbelief showed in it.

"Was it supposed to?"

"Yes, Jimmy, it was," he began, tilting his head. "You were supposed to come crying to me, all angry and bewildered at how I could do such a thing. Then I would calm you down, and we'd kiss and make up, preferably in front of other esteemed colleagues. But you had to go and actually _work_, not caring about what I did and thus ruining all of my plans."

"Yeah...okay..," I didn't have clue if he was serious or not, but he'd never tell me anyway. "You should let me in on your diabolical plans every now and then so I don't ruin them by _working_."

"I'll have to remember that," Greg said, and leaned back by the sink. "So you didn't give that little stunt I pulled this morning another thought all damn day."

"Oh, I thought of something," I answered with a grin.

"Dare I ask what it is?"

"It was...," I stuttered, "it was the looks on Chase and Cameron's faces." Then I had to stop talking because I was too busy giggling like a complete moron, and soon Greg joined me. Finally, I could talk and breath again, and wiped the tears of laughter away. "Oh man, the looks on their faces were priceless. Absolutely priceless. Too bad neither of us had a camera right then."

"True, Jimmy, true." Greg smiled and brought his hand up and ran the thumb along my cheek. "But that still doesn't tell me why you didn't give it a second thought."

I clasped his wrist and held the hand in place. "There was nothing to give a second thought about. I was caught off guard, I'll admit, but I wasn't bothered by it. You were just being you, and why should I give a second thought about that? You and I have nothing to be ashamed about and we have nothing to hide. And if people don't like it that's too damned bad."

Greg's smile got even wider. "Spoken like a divorced man who doesn't give a damn about the rules anymore. I'm so proud of you," he said, taking his hand away and folding it back on the cane. "Still fatigued, huh? You look tired."

"It's still there, not as bad, but still there."

"Too tired to keep me company for a while?"

"Doing what?"

"C'mon, Dr. Rule-Breaker," he grinned and guided me to the sofa. "You're a smart guy, I'm sure you can think of _something_ to pass the time."


	26. Chapter 26

"You're not going to make me watch one of your silly soaps, are you?" I asked wearily from the sofa as Greg fetched himself a beer. All I wanted to do was relax for a while. Watching one of those corny overblown sap-fests might make me snap and go on a tri-state killing spree. 

"If I wanted you out of the room, I'd put on _General Hospital_," he said, limping over and sinking into the cushion. "Seeing as your short-term memory is on the fritz again, let me remind you that I wanted you to keep me company for a while."

He clicked on the television and a documentary detailing the hunt for John List flashed across the screen. We'd seen it a million times, but Greg decided to make it a million and one, setting the remote on the table next to _The Alienist_. "Here." He tossed the book into my lap, no worse for the wear. The magazine subscription card stuck out of the back cover.

"Thanks." I couldn't remember what page I had been on and would probably have to start over. "Did you like it?"

"It was all right." The Greg House equivalent of a five star review.

I put my arm around his shoulder and pulled him closer."Since when did you ever want company,  
Greg?"

"Since a certain switch-hitting oncologist decided to try an alternative lifestyle in the presence of my company. Besides, Jimmy, if I didn't like having you around I would have spent the last dozen years ignoring you."

"You certainly have a way with words," I said with a slight chuckle.

"That's one thing you've always _loved_ about me." His smirk broke only when he sipping his beer.

"Yeah, you're a painter with words."

"A picture is worth a thousand words," Greg replied. "Any idiot can slap paint on a canvas and call it _art_. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. The pen is mightier than the sword. My words have cut you to the bone, but you still want to be by my side."

"It'll take more than a few choice words to scare me away," I began. "Out of everyone–wives, girlfriends, friends, lovers–you're the only one who has never left my side. Sounds like we were made for each other."

"Yeah," Greg agreed, surprising me a bit. "You search the hardest for the one thing that's right there in front of you. It's funny how these things work out."

* * *

"Dr. Wilson?" Foreman, Chase and Cameron were trailing behind me. I suddenly felt like a mother duck trying to find a river. 

"Are you all on loan to oncology today?" I said, unlocking the door to my office. I didn't even have my coat off and they were swarming me, staring in strange fascination, like Amish people catching their first glimpse of a fax machine.

"Yesterday...," Cameron asked cautiously, the look on her face had 'I Woke Up Screaming From The Nightmares' written all over it, "was that for real or just for show?"

"For real _and_ for show," I answered, taking a certain smug satisfaction in watching them squirm in their blinding white doctor coats. "I'm a little busy for a curtain call right now. Maybe if you ask House nicely, he'll set one up."

"No thanks," Chase said.

"You and House are a regular Odd Couple," Foreman spoke up.

"That's one way to put it." I had to agree. "Oil and water, but somehow we mix."

"That's...interesting," Cameron said in the same cautious tone.

"Do you have something to say, Dr. Cameron?" I knew she was dying to tell me something. I hoped it wasn't some pathetic anti-gay spiel since I had too much to do and didn't need the distraction. Cameron didn't seem the type, but then again, I really didn't know her that well. The warm and caring exterior she projected could be a brilliant disguise. She could be evil incarnate and I would never guess.

"Yes," she said. "Thank you."

"You're thanking me?" I puzzled. "Thanking me for what?"

"For making our lives easier," Foreman smirked.

"How? I don't have any kind of influence over your jobs."

Chase smiled. "Sure, you do. You've made House happy, therefore, our jobs are a hell of a lot better. We came to say thank you."

"You're welcome," I said, trying to choke back the laughter. I could still see the looks on Cameron and Chase's faces from the day before. Priceless. "I'm glad I could help, even if I didn't realize I was."

"Whether House is on a high or a low, it's nice that he has someone there for him." Foreman said. "He'll probably go back to being a slave-driver in a few weeks, but maybe it won't be so bad."

"Dare to dream," I smiled. "Look, I've got an obscene amount of work to catch up on..."

"Sure," Chase smiled back. "We're not foolish enough to believe that you're a magic bullet for House and his moods, but you still deserve a thanks for our brief moment of paradise."

"Paradise? That's a compliment if I ever heard one." I chuckled as I watched them file out to the corridor.

After I picked myself off the floor, I was still distracted for the rest of the day, but it was a nice distraction. Very nice. But I had to wonder what Greg would think about it. Only one way to find out.


	27. Chapter 27

"What brings you by?" Greg asked, his feet on the desk, The Who playing on the stereo.

"Your crew brings me by." I'd been sitting for hours and my legs were numb, so I paced around his office in hopes of getting my blood flowing again.

"You're not here to see me? Why Jimmy, I'm heartbroken," he grinned as he twirled the cane.

"I'm not here to see _them_. I'm here because of something they said."

"About me?"

"Yes."

"Judging from that smirk on your face I'd have to say it wasn't all that bad." Greg leaned back and switched off the music, then gave me a smirk of his own. "So what's so damned important that you're using it as an excuse to put off doing your paperwork."

"I'm not putting off anything," I replied, then stopped pacing in front of his desk.

"Excuses, excuses," he said to me. "I don't need an excuse to put off my paperwork, so I've got you beat in that department. Now are you going to drop this bombshell sometime today or am I going to sit here and die of suspense?"

"They stopped by my office to thank me," I replied.

"What for?"

"For making you happy." I waited for a reaction but couldn't read one. "Are you happy, Greg?"

"Maybe," he shrugged.

"Is that all you have to say about it?"

The smirk was back. "I'm turning cartwheels on the inside if that's what you want to hear. Maybe later you and I can hold hands and skip down the corridor."

"Are you happy, Greg?" I asked again, leaning forward with my hands on the desk.

"I don't know, am I?"

"Your crew wanted me to know that," I informed him, though if I told him that I knew the identity of the second gunman on the grassy knoll he still would have shown that same thin smile. "They were telling the truth."

"If you already know the answer then why are you asking the question?"

"I want to hear you say it."

"And if I don't?" His ice-blue gaze never flinched.

"I'm not leaving until you do."

An empty threat. He saw right through it. He leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head. "Well then, I guess we're both in for a long night."

"Greg, why--"

"I should be asking you the same thing, Jimmy. Why is this so important? What's in it for _you_?"

"Nothing." I relented and flopped into the chair. "I just want to hear you say it."

He pondered that for a bit. "Fair enough," Greg said. "What's in it for _me_?"

"What do you want?" I asked, almost afraid to hear the answer. I should have known I wouldn't get through this unscathed.

"What have you got?" He paused more effect than anything else. "Jimmy, you should plan ahead for these things."

"Plan ahead?" I puzzled.

"You already know that you make me happy," he said, pulling himself up with the cane and limping around the desk. "You don't have to question that. What you should be asking yourself right about now is what will it take to keep me that way."

"Do I even want to know?" I asked as he took my hand and pulled me up until we were toe-to-toe.

"You should already know," Greg said with a low growl, then kissed me hard for what seemed like forever.

He broke away and movement caught my eye. Foreman was in the door. I didn't even know anyone else was in the office. My back had been to the door until Greg pulled me up.

"Dr. Foreman, can you give us just a minute?" he asked, cool as ever.

"Sure," Foreman spit out before he flew down the corridor.

I shook my head and sighed. "Did you really have to do that _again_?"

"I didn't _have_ to, I _wanted _to. It makes me _happy_," he said, running his thumb up and down my cheek. "I'm just being me, remember? Admit it, you enjoyed that as much as I did."

"Okay...a little--"

"I knew it," he smiled. "You really know how to make a guy happy."

"So you're admitting it?"

"I never said I wasn't. Working late tonight?"

"Probably," I said. "Like I said, it never ends."

"That's too bad," he said. "See, unlike your little wives, I understand a doctor's schedule. I won't be mad if you're late. Take your time and think of a way to make me happy, and maybe I'll do the same for you."


	28. Chapter 28

"Stacy was a lawyer. You don't shout from the rooftops that you're involved with a lawyer, let alone that you're a bisexual involved with a lawyer. That's just an open invitation for a major ass-kicking." Greg finished his brandy and stretched back out on the sofa. Freaking out Foreman had left him in a good mood. No room on the sofa, I sat and made myself comfortable on the coffee table.

"You could never tell Stacy that you bat for both teams," I said. "But now you're going miles out of your way to tell anyone who will listen that we're involved."

"We're here, we're queer, and they better get used to it real damn quick," he said with that damnable grin. "I'm telling everyone because I simply want to. It makes me _happy_. Isn't a happy House a nice House to have around?"

"There's more to it than that."

"Is there?"

"Yes, Greg, there is," I said. "You've been _here_ for years and years. Now all of a sudden you want the world to know you're _queer_?"

"Mr. Pot...meet Mr. Kettle."

"What are you talking–"

"_You_ came after _me_," he reminded me, as if I needed reminding. "_You're_ the one who wanted a relationship with _me_. Three marriages later, you suddenly decide that happiness means living with another man. That makes you _queer_ in every sense of the word. And in case you haven't noticed–we're out, there's no turning back now."

"There's a fine line between being open about it and being obnoxious about it," I said, leaning forward. "You enjoy the shock value a little too much."

He smiled. "Shock value...that's an interesting way to put it." He sat up and turned to face me. Our knees were touching.

"How so?" I asked, admiring how the light brought out the crystal and royal blue highlights in his eyes.

"You're talking about this morning and Foreman, am I right?"

"Yes."

"So are you really and truly concerned that he's so traumatized that he'll have to sleep with the lights on for a week," he said dryly, never blinking. "Or are you just upset that you didn't notice Foreman was in my office and I kissed you first."

"No, not hardly..." I shrugged out of my jacket and tossed it on his lap. He spared it a glance, then turned back to me."

"Of course not," he smiled. "Being as you admitted to getting a kick out of it. The only thing worse than being a hypocrite is being a _queer_ hypocrite."

"Greg..."

"Then what is it, Jimmy?"

"After all this time...I still can't figure you out." I smiled weakly, then suddenly couldn't look him in the eye. "You're the human equivalent of Chinese algebra."

"Hmm...If I were Chinese that would be the perfect description."

I snorted at that, tried to hide it, and was utterly and miserably unsuccessful.

He put his hand under my chin and turned my head until our eyes locked again. "Jimmy, you don't have to figure me out right this second. I'm hardly going to hold that against you."

"Are you telling me the truth or just sparing my feelings?"

"Both." He let go of my chin, and didn't bother to tell me what he meant by saying 'both'. Maybe I'd find out in a few years, or never. "The fact that you're up to the challenge is a victory in itself."

"I can at least say I tried."

"And I can never say you didn't."

"I lied," I suddenly blurted out as if confessing a deadly sin. "I lied about Foreman."

"What about Foreman?" he frowned.

"Well, not exactly a gigantic lie...I kinda wish that I had noticed him so I could kiss you first instead of the other way around. You beat me to it."

"Interesting," Greg chuckled. "Whatever the case, don't a lose a second of sleep over it. Besides, there's always Cuddy."


	29. Chapter 29

"I don't think Cuddy will go for something like that," I said.

"So?"

"It might not be a good idea to shock the person in charge."

"Losing your nerve already, Jimmy?" Greg said. "If you don't want to do it, then I will. It might be tomorrow, next week, or next year, but I'll get it done."

"Next year? What–"

"Don't start playing Boy Scout with me," he said with a yank of my tie, the growl returning to his voice. "It's all fine and dandy unless she has the power to hire and fire you, hmmm? You queer hypocrite. I'm good enough to shack up with, but not good enough to kiss in front of the boss." His left hand came around the back of my neck, holding me there.

"I was just making an observation. I didn't mean anything by it." I had to look back down at the floor. My heart was racing. Those blue eyes were staring, and I knew the pupils were dilated.

"Still don't know what to do with me," he chuckled quietly. "That's okay. Until then, I know _exactly_ what to do with _you_." The hand holding my tie loosened. "Jimmy, look at me."

I straightened up. His pupils were the size of dimes.

"Kiss me," he said, using that same low gravelly voice from the night he waited for me behind the door.

I obliged. Greg sat perfectly still, not making an effort to make my task any easier. He didn't kiss back. He probably didn't even close his eyes.

"Now kiss me like you mean it," he growled, "and pretend Cuddy is watching."

"Take back what you said and I'll think about it," I replied.

"Take back _what_?" he asked, unable to hide the surprise in his face.

"What you said about me being a queer hypocrite."

"Why should I?"

"Because I want you to, and you owe me that."

"And if I don't? Are you going to sit there and pout all goddamn night? Is that why you're ready to rip my clothes off, because I hurt your precious fucking feelings?"

"You want something from me, Greg," I informed him, sitting back, "you have to give me something in return."

"Do I?"

"Yes," I said, folding my arms for emphasis.

"Okay," he agreed with obvious and deliberate hesitation. Just being a bastard for the hell of it. "You're not a queer hypocrite."

"Say it like you mean it."

"You, James Wilson, are not a queer hypocrite." The sincerity sounded so fake it had to be real.

"Thank you." I plastered on a small fake smile. "Now was that so bad, Greg. Did it kill you to play nice for a change?"

"I'm not playing nice," he said in a flat tone. "If you really wanted 'nice', you'd be out there looking for Suzy Creamcheese number four. Would you still see me on the side? Be a real queer hypocrite, or just a queer cheating bastard husband again. How long would it be this time before 'nice' just isn't enough for you anymore?"

"Are you finished?"

"For now."

"I'm not going to be a husband again."

"So you've said."

"Is there something you want from me, Greg?"

"Kiss me like you mean it," he answered, eyes glowing.

"Is Cuddy still going to watch?"

"If she wants."

"She might not like what she sees," I said.

"I'll let you both know when I care," he said, yanking me forward by my tie again. "You're taking too goddamn long."


	30. Chapter 30

"You're blushing," Greg noted with barely concealed glee. Me being uncomfortable always makes him smile, whether it's him making me squirm or not. He'll take it any way it's presented. "Am I making you nervous?"

"A little," I answered truthfully, though he didn't really care what my answer turned out to be. The man can switch his indifference on and off like a cheap lamp.

"A little..." he repeated, his amusement becoming more obvious by the second. He tugged at the knot in my tie without an ounce of finesse. "That's why you're ready to explode all over my living room, because you're a _little nervous_. That's why you're all but panting at my feet, because you're a _little nervous_." The tie slid off and he threw it aside. Dark blue silk puddled on the floor. "That's why you can't wait for me to drag you out of here and throw you on the bed–"

"How about I drag you to the bed first," I snapped. He always chose the oddest times to push my buttons and test my limits. On purpose. "Would that shut you up for once?"

That stopped him, if only for a few seconds. "Hmmm...it appears that I've hit a nerve. Poor little Jimmy," Greg smirked as he began to unbutton my shirt with deliberate and maddening slowness. "You're not trying to escape out the window, therefore, you must really want Cuddy to watch."

"_You_ want Cuddy to watch," I told him. "I'm just going along for the ride."

His fingers brushed my chest and I flinched. Of course, Greg saw it and the smugness washed over him like a heavy downpour in Seattle.

"Still here, still _nervous_," he said.

"I'm not nervous."

"You just said you were."

"Not anymore," I said as he finally pulled the last button free.

"Well Jimmy, you're either lying through your pearly white teeth or you're so fucking turned-on that you can't leave the apartment without being arrested for indecent exposure. Which is it?"

"Neither." I peeled off my shirt and tossed it at that damned smug smile. "I'm still here because I'm going to make you shut up one way or another." I snatched his collar and yanked him into the longest, hardest, deepest kiss I had ever given anyone, making damn well sure he felt every last second of it.

Greg may have been appreciative, but he still had my number. "You kiss like a girl," he sneered.

"You're still a bastard," I shot back.

"Tell me something I don't know."

"You just love driving me crazy, don't you?"

"Only because you love it more than I do. I don't just lay there and go through the motions, unlike your little Stepford wives, you're little dainty by-the-book creampuffs," he said, somehow managing to make that sentence sound positively obscene, the way only Greg House can. "Are you just going to sit there or are you going to make me shut up? You think you can handle that or do I have to draw you a map?"

No more patience, I tore at his shirt. Several buttons popped off and clattered under the table.

"Jimmy," Greg smiled. "I'm impressed."

* * *

Staring past the ceiling, not looking at anything. Didn't want to think and failed at that. The night was sticky and humid. It muddled my thought a little, but not enough. A faint rumble of thunder, brief blue flash of lightning. 

For a moment I wondered if any of my ex-wives knew about my current relationship and living arrangements. Then I remembered that as long as the alimony checks cleared I could be living a broom closet for all they cared. Maybe that's a little harsh, but not much. They always got the house in the divorce, only because they thought I would fight them to the death over it. I may have no regrets about marrying them, but I'm sure they may have one or two. One good thing about divorcing and moving on is that I don't have to give a damn anymore. Every cloud has a silver lining. Sometimes you just have to hunt for it, look under the couch, that kind of thing. It's always worth the effort to find it.

The wind was picking up, drowning out the sound of Greg's quiet snoring. The storm would wake him up soon and I might as well join him. I enjoy his company and it's not like I have anywhere else to go at the moment. Another silver lining. I didn't have to look real hard for that one.


	31. Chapter 31

Silver linings. Ex-wives. I don't give a damn anymore, but that's not necessarily a reason to celebrate. I can be a real son-of-a-bitch sometimes. Just ask any of the former Mrs. Wilsons.

The storm turned away, no silver lining to be found, but leaving behind the soft patter of rain and the occasional flicker of lightning. The temperature dropped to the point where the breeze brought out goosebumps. I pulled the covers up over myself and the sleeping Greg. On his side, back to me, I threw the blanket over his shoulder. He flinched a bit, then soon fell back into a deep sleep. No getting up for a while. I was a little disappointed. Insomnia must be contagious because I couldn't sleep. I got up and went straight for the liquor cabinet.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

"What are you doing out here?" Greg asked with a touch of concern in his eyes, standing over me. I had fallen asleep in the living room. "Did you get lost on the way to the spare bedroom?"

"No," I mumbled, rubbing my eyes until pink and green spots started swimming around my lids. A glance at the clock tells me it's five in the morning. "I came out here for a drink and never made it back to bed."

"How much did you have to drink?" He sat down and eyed the scotch bottle on the table while trying to pat my hair down. I probably looked like a rooster.

"Too much, apparently," I answered as my head began to throb with the beginnings of a hangover.

"You only drink like that when something's bothering you," he said knowingly, and he should know better than anyone. "So what is it?"

"Nothing," I said, wishing my voice was stronger. "You were asleep and I wanted a drink so I came out here. No conspiracy."

"And so you guzzled half a bottle of scotch."

"No, I didn't."

"That bottle wasn't even opened last night," Greg pointed out, his tired eyes still luminous in pale lamp light, "and now it's half empty. This is exactly what you did before Julie kicked you out. So I'm going to ask again, what's bothering you?"

"And I'm going to tell you again, nothing is bothering me. I wanted a drink and drank too much. That's all."

"You're lying to me, Jimmy," he said stolidly, then stole the scotch away and stalked to the kitchen. I heard the sound of water gurgling into the coffee pot, and the floof of the stove being lit. Soon the scent of coffee drifted in and all around my drowsy senses. A few minutes later Greg limped back in and handed me a steaming cup and bottle of ibuprofen. "Here. Lying is easier when you're sober."

"Would you please not do that?" I sighed, completely exasperated with everything and everyone, especially the friend I live with and sleep with. "Not today. Save it for Chase or Cameron or your patients."

"Do what?" He disappeared for a moment, then came back with his own mug. The steam clouded up his scruffy face for a few seconds as he settled back into his spot on the sofa next to me. His strong coffee overpowered the weak mixture in my cup.

"You are talking down to me and I don't appreciate it," I replied curtly, and swallowed some pills. "You are accusing me of being a liar and I don't appreciate that either."

He sipped at his coffee, cool and calm as ever. "Maybe I am talking down to you, but you're still lying to me and I'd like to know why. Am I still like a human Rubik's Cube to you, Jimmy, still angry because you can't solve me."

"No, it's nothing like that."

"So something _is_ upsetting you."

He caught me. Dammit, maybe someday I'd actually learn to lie sometime before I was too old to care. "I've had too much time to think lately, and not all of it has been worth thinking about."

"You make thinking sound like a bad thing," he said.

"It is when you think about your failures."

"What failures?" he asked with legitimate interest. "Since when is being a doctor, an oncologist, considered a failure?"

"It's not. My marriages were. One failure after the other."

"Your marriages or your divorces?"

"Good point," I smiled thinly. "Last night I was thinking about how I didn't care about my any of my little creampuff wives anymore."

"Why were you thinking that," Greg asked with a frown.

"Because I'm a bastard who couldn't be bothered to make my marriages work." I answered in all seriousness. "I was the one who couldn't keep my vows."

His frown shifted to a narrow grin. "You should rethink that answer. There's isn't room in this apartment for two incessant bastards. And I'm not about to give up my title. I had it first."

I gave him a narrow grin of my own. "So what does that make me?"

"We'll have to think about that." He put an arm around my shoulder. "In the meantime, what's done is done, what's past is past. You can't change it, so stop beating yourself up over it."

"I'll try." I said, sounding less-than-convincing.

"You better do more than try. "

"I said I'd try. I promise."

"What about your wives?" Greg asked almost as if he really wanted to hear my answer.

"I hope they put my alimony to good use," I said, and leaned into his shoulder.


	32. Chapter 32

People like to believe everything happens for a reason. Not necessarily a good reason, but a reason nonetheless. It brings some sense of calm and balance to the otherwise chaotic whirlwind that is called life. I'm not about to tell them otherwise. I could tell them about all the lovely twenty-six year old jogging enthusiast who died from ovarian cancer while her Uncle Herbert smoked a dozen cigars a day, drank two bottles of gin every other day and died peacefully in his sleep at the age of eighty-five. It's not the least bit fair, and they would tell me that's the whole point. But all I have to say is either God or Yahweh or Someone Up There has a real sick sense of humor or I'm reading too much into it all.

Bitter pills to swallow and ironies. I've had more than my fair share. The day after my second divorce came through I pawned my wedding ring. While waiting for the clerk to write up the receipt I happened to look down at a display case and saw my now ex-wife's 2-carat engagement ring glittering under the glass.

I do believe that whatever the case, there are lessons to be learned, and Someone apparently believes I need a few refresher courses.

* * *

It was still early and we were both hungry so I made us a towering stack of buttermilk pancakes. My headache was receding, always a good thing. Maybe I could make it through the day without being keeled over by a migraine. Making it through the day would be an wonderful thing in my book. Maybe I should get out more. 

"Have you heard from any of them lately?" Greg asked with an expression of idiotic innocence pasted on his face.

"Them?" I poured myself a glass of milk and filled up his.

"The women you were once married to."

"Nope." I answered, cutting off the single word as if my voice were a pair of scissors, hoping he would take the hint. As if he ever did.

"Why not?"

"Well," I began with a sigh, "they don't want to see me, for one thing. And I have nothing to say to them for another."

"Are you sure?"

"Why?" I couldn't help but be suspicious at this line of questioning. "Do you want your bed back, Greg? Are you starting to have some regrets?"

"No," he answered and wouldn't elaborate just to torture me for drinking his scotch. I knew I would end up paying for it one way or another and not out of my wallet.

"You never liked them anyway. Why do you care?"

"You're first wife was cute. And Julie had a nice rack..."

I choked on a piece of my breakfast and fumbled for the glass of milk. "Greg, are you finished–"

"No, I'm not,"he said, looking over his stack of pancakes. "You're right, I never cared for your wives. That's not the point. The point is why you suddenly don't."

"You've never been married or divorced. I don't think you can understand what I went through." The milk curdled in my stomach.

"Try me," he said stoically. "Are you suddenly having Post Traumatic Stress Disorder over your failed marriages or, for some strange reason, you wonder what they would say if they could see their ex-husband now."

"Julie found out," I said, suddenly wanting to get up and toss my breakfast into the toilet, "and she hates me for it."

"Do you hate her?"

"No. But I guess I can't blame her for hating me. I never told her and she had to find out through the grapevine. If the roles were reversed I probably would have done the same thing."

"Really?"

"Yes. Maybe. I don't know."

He poured more maple syrup over his breakfast until it looked like a big sticky lake. "You do realize that there is a difference between not caring about your wives and not caring about what your wives think about you. Do you think for a second that they give a damn what you think about them?"

"I know they don't."

"Then why is bothering you so much?"

"Because..." I began, then hesitated. "Because I was supposed to be there, I should have been there for them and I wasn't. I was having too much fun sneaking around behind their backs. And right now I can't promise that I won't do the same thing to you."

"I know," he said and continued to calmly eat his breakfast as if we were discussing the weather. "If you should ever find yourself in that situation you should take a step back and remember what happened the last time. I'm not as forgiving as Julie, you should remember that too."

"Can you make me that promise?" I asked.

"No, but if it ever comes to that, we'll see if I can follow my own advice."


	33. Chapter 33

"You're a man of many moods, Jimmy," Greg said while ignoring the butter and syrup dripping down his chin. "Taking into account what you have told me here today, and your rather sordid history, I have to say that in more than a few ways, you're more fucked up than I am."

"Thank you, Dr. Drug Addict," I said, the words coming out sharp enough to saw through the table.

"You're welcome, Dr. Brokeback," he retorted without missing a beat. "Your juvenile name-calling is doing nothing to restore that little innocent Jewish boy image you so like to project on the unsuspecting world. Did you turn to me because all the girls got sick and tired of hearing you whine about your divorces?"

"No. Why do you have to make everything sound so perverted?"

"Did you even tell them you're divorced? Probably not," he continued with no sign of slowing down. Once he gets started, the only way to stop him is...impossible. "I think I've figured it out. After the papers were signed, the property was divided and the dust finally settled, you realized I'm the only friend you have left. Not all that many people will take an admitted adulterer in, no matter gosh-darn cute he is, will they?. You found that out the hard way. Now it seems you want go another round. A regular glutton for punishment, you are."

"I said I couldn't promise it. That doesn't mean I actually will."

"It doesn't mean you won't either. Here's another piece of advice: you better stop feeling sorry for yourself and make up your mind about what you want real damn quick. Because I'm losing my patience with you, and, I'm going to say this once, you walk out that door, you're not coming back. Ever." He meant every single word of it. The solemness of those words dripped down the walls.

"You said you couldn't promise either," I said pointedly.

"I'm not going to kick myself out of my own apartment," he replied. "I have nothing lose. But I hope a roll in the hay with some bimbo in a pink thong is worth it, Jimmy." With that he finished off his breakfast and carried his plate to the sink. Then he turned and threw the plate into the wall where it shattered into a jumbled pile of shards. A piece flew over and cut his cheek. He didn't seem to notice. I was frozen in place, couldn't move a muscle. He probably would have hit me if I did. "_You fucking selfish prick_," Greg hissed, a trickle of blood dripping onto the floor. "I should have known I was just another one of your toys. Now you're tired of me and want another plaything. You son-of-a-bitch. It's nice to know what our friendship means to _you_." He stalked out of the kitchen. A few seconds later, the bedroom door slammed.

I spent an ungodly amount of time staring into the soggy remains of my pancakes. I had done it again–hurt the person I cared about most. This was the perfect time to really hate myself. I cried into the table, tears puddling all over the surface.

Eventually I got myself together, scraped the pancake remains into the trash and washed the plate. Thankfully I still had some clothes hanging in the closet of the spare bedroom. By the time I left for the hospital–nearly ninety minutes late–Greg still hadn't come out of the bedroom.

* * *

There are times when it becomes completely necessary to shed all your troubles and concentrate on the task at hand. My patients deserve my full undivided attention and I gave it to them. Why I can't do that for anyone else is still a mystery. Unfortunately I can't skip to the last page to find out. My heart felt like it was being twisted by an invisible fist, but I gave my everything, and that's something to be proud of, as sad as that may sound. Needless to say, I didn't really feel like patting myself on the back when I climbed into the Volvo and drove back to 221B. 

Greg never showed up for work.

I was honestly surprised to find the curb empty of trashbags full of my stuff. I stood at the door, expecting the locks to be changed. Holding all my things hostage while I camped out in my office with nothing but the clothes on my back and Chicken McNuggets for dinner. Another surprise, the key slipped into the lock and turned easily, just like always.

No lights, I fumbled for the lightswitch. No television, no piano, no radio. Completely quiet. I glanced into the kitchen as I walked past. The shattered remains of the plate still littered the floor.

The bedroom door was still closed but unlocked. I quietly pushed it open, waiting for the smack of the cane across my legs that never came. Lord knows I deserved it and the bruises that would come along for free, but I'm still glad it didn't materialize.

Light from the hallway stretched into the room and I could see Greg asleep on top of the covers, still wearing his pajama bottoms and tee shirt from the night before. The ghostly glow from the hallway made him look pale and gaunt, hollowed out circles under his eyes. If I didn't know any better, I'd have to say I hadn't been the only one who cried today.

I stepped to the bedside lamp and switched it on, then settled on the edge of the bed as he stirred. The scratch on his cheek was now a dried red-brown. He regarded me for a few moments with a combination of sleepiness and icy detachment as he narrowed his eyes.

"Your suitcases are in still in the spare bedroom," he said with his usual apathy, propping up on his elbow.

"I'm not going anywhere," I said.

"Really. No candy-stripers to take the poor doctor in? Has Doctor Midas lost his golden touch? That must be devastating for you, no panting girls to wrap around your finger."

"I'm sorry." Ignoring his sarcasm was getting tougher by the second.

"For what?"

"Everything."

"Are you now."

"I wouldn't be here if I wasn't."

A trace of genuine seriousness and caring crept into his voice and expression. "You came back for a reason, but it's going to take more than a half-assed apology to convince me you're truly sincere in what you came back for."

"You may have nothing to lose, but I sure as hell do," I said as my voice began to waver. "Our friendship means everything to me, its all I have left, and if I lose that then I have nothing."


	34. Chapter 34

"Because you'll have _nothing_," Greg said quietly, almost to himself. His voice didn't sound mocking, just tired and contemplative. He'd had plenty of time to think over the course of the day. Plenty of time to make more than a few decisions regarding me, him, and us.

I was silent and watched as my tears continued their free fall and spotted the bedspread. I made no effort to wipe them away. A salty taste spread across my tongue.

"Do you have someone else lined up?" he asked with an annoying nonchalance.

"No," I said and it was the absolute truth.

"Were you making plans?"

"No...just making plans to make plans, if that makes any sense." I answered with a stilted chuckle. God, I sounded like a blithering idiot, and that made me cry harder.

The bed rose as he got up, the cane tapped the floor, and I felt a tug on my arm. "C'mon, Jimmy. Let's get you some tissues and a drink. We need to talk."

* * *

The talk didn't start right away. I sat at the table with a box of tissues and a bottle of scotch while Greg swept up the ruins of the plate. There was a still a splatter of syrup on the wall, casting a sticky gleam in the overhead lights. My friend, my only friend, either didn't notice or chose to ignore it for the time being. I refreshed my drink and said nothing. Syrup could wait for a while.

The pieces of plate jangled into the trash can. Greg threw a weird glance in my direction that I couldn't read. "You owe me a plate," he smirked.

"I'll get you another set," I offered, half serious.

"If that's what you want," he said obliviously, not really agreeing to my offer. He didn't really care a toss about the damn thing as long as a shiny new plate was placed within the cupboard in the next few days. A brand new kitchen set could await him tomorrow and he'd still bitch about the plate. And I wasn't in the mood to point out that he didn't have to smash it against the wall. He'd probably smash another one just to say he didn't have to smash that one either.

"So...," Greg began as he settled across the table and poured himself a drink, "you were thinking about being with someone else."

"Yes." Hardly a reason to deny it, not that I could. There may as well be a scarlet letter hanging around my neck.

"Why?"

"Because...that's what I always end up doing."

"Why?" he asked again with an edge in voice. My forthcoming laundry list of lame excuses were obviously not doing anything to satisfy him. But they were the only excuses I had.

"I don't know," I answered, my voice cracking. The tears made a comeback, turning the kitchen into a watery blur.

"That's not good enough, Jimmy."

"I know." My hand reached for the tissues and yanked out three or four. A pathetic, shaking, blubbering mess was sitting in my chair. If anyone else could see me right now they would run screaming for the nice men in the white coats.

"You're a lout, a cad, a cheater," he said, "and you know it, and all your exes know it. Yet you're sitting there bawling your eyes out like it's the first time anyone else has ever pointed it out to you."

"No, not hardly," I answered, refilling my glass to the brim as Greg silently watched. "It usually happens after the fact."

"You mean after you've been caught."

"Yeah, something like that."

"That's interesting."

"_What?_" My jaw hit the table in the disbelief, hard enough to leave a bruise. "You destroyed a plate this morning because you were _furious_ with a cad like me. I'm surprised you didn't break that plate over my head. Now it's all just _interesting?_"

"It's interesting that you warned me first." He had that look in his eye, that look he gets whenever he's stumped on a case andchasing the clues around in his head, trying to catch all the pieces and make the square fit into the circle. "As far as I'm concerned you may as well have given me a list of names and addresses and invited me over to run the video camera."

"I thought that you deserved to know the truth."

"Do I?" He seemed amused, not angry, and that was pissing me off. "Me–a bisexual, crippled, drug addict. I deserved a warning but the beautiful ladies you vowed to love and cherish forever didn't. Maybe I'm weird, or maybe I just took too much Vicodin today, but I find that interesting."

"I just wanted to be fair," I replied lamely.

"You've never been fair to your partners in your entire life, Jimmy," Greg said with a sudden deadly seriousness. "So cut the crap. Why the fairness kick?"

"I have no idea–"

"_Bullshit!_" The same dripping acidic hiss he had used that morning cut through the room. "You'd fuck over Mother Theresa if you thought you could get away with it. Now you haven't even done anything yet and you're falling to pieces over your supposed _guilt_, all because you think a bastard like me deserves the truth. That's bullshit if I've ever heard it. You know the answer, now why? _Why?_"

"I don't–"

His fist slammed down on the table instead of his harsh voice cutting me off. My scotch sloshed all over the place. The pale amber puddles stayed put. "This is your last chance," he said slowly, three seconds away from his anger at me boiling over. "You either tell me why or your sorry ass is out the door."

It was my last chance and I had to choose. I'm the one who wanted this relationship to begin with, and I wanted to keep it more than anything. Either that or be a miserable cheating bastard who deserved whatever he had coming to him. A life with someone who actually cared about me or the a few lousy hours with the nearest airhead blonde who happened to have the bad luck to cross my path.

"I mean it, Jimmy. You answer me now or you can go pack."

I made my choice. "Because...it is my last chance," I began.

"Last chance for what?"

"My last chance at some sort of...steadiness, for lack of a better word. My last chance at a decent relationship. I warned you because I was afraid I wouldn't be able to stop myself, and you'd never let me get away with it."

With deep relief I watched as his anger drained away, replaced with a quiet contentment.

For the first time that evening I allowed myself a tiny smile. "And seeing your reaction this morning and right now, I can see that I was right."


	35. Chapter 35

I got up to fetch a paper towel while Greg continued to ruminate about our current situation. He regarded me silently while I cleaned up the spilled scotch. Thankfully he didn't start bitching about his booze being wasted and that I owed him a new bottle. I'd end up having to buy the whole damn liquor store. 

"Did you think you could get away with it?" he asked, not looking in my direction while I tossed the now soggy paper towel into the trash.

"Once or twice, if I was lucky," I answered. I may be a lout, a cad, a cheater, but at least I'm honest about it. Usually after the fact, but a little bit of honesty can go a long way in those situations.

"How many times did you cheat on Julie before she caught you?" Greg asked with a wonderful blend of genuine curiosity and biting rancor.

"I don't know."

"Does that mean you don't know the answer or does that mean you lost count?"

"I'm not going to answer that question at all," I replied tersely, grabbing the sponge and scrubbing the syrup off the wall. "Now neither of us has to worry about it anymore. And in case you didn't notice, I'm no longer married. It's a moot point."

"I'd like to know what Julie has to say about that 'moot point'." he said in an overly acerbic tone that told me he wasn't done with me by a long shot.

My back was to him but I knew he had that smart-ass grin plastered all over his face. Torturing me on purpose, just to see how long it will take for me to break. In a sick way I was curious myself, to see if I could withstand his barrage of verbal firepower.

"Be my guest," I responded, trying to put some aloofness in my tone, hoping it would make my sarcastic friend back off a bit. "But seeing as she hates you as much as she hates me, if not more,  
she'll probably tell you where to stick that 'moot point'." The syrupy stain was gone. I flung the sponge back into the sink and reclaimed my place at the table.

"Julie was too much of an ice-princess for my taste. She can hate me all she wants, " Greg said with a diminutive yet wicked smile. Trying to get through my skin and burrow under it.

"She wasn't an ice-princess. She was smart and funny and gorgeous. Everything a red-blooded American male could ever want. Everything I was looking for."

"So what happened? How did your cookie-cutter marriage finally crumble?"

"I ran into a nurse at a bookstore and we got to talking. We started to meet for coffee once a week. Then it got to be lunch three or four times a week. That went on for a few weeks. Just lunch, hardly a crime. Then one day said nurse needed a ride home and I was invited in for a drink..."

"A garden-variety quickie. You're an idiot."

"I know."

"You're beyond an idiot," he continued. "You're an _imbecile_."

"I get the point already," I snapped. I was going to get it with both barrels before the night was over, and I wasn't bulletproof. He won, I didn't have the energy to fight him anymore. If there was a white flag around I would have waved it. "Being invited in for a drink...I saw it coming from a mile away. It was so obvious it was pathetic. But it was too good an opportunity to pass up."

"Idiot."

"Enough, please."

"So where is this nurse now?" he asked, starting to wear me down.

"In Nebraska."

"What the hell is in Nebraska besides hicks and tornadoes?"

"To be closer to a sick relative. At least that's what I was told, but I doubt that's the whole story."

"And this the one you were caught with?"

"Yes."

"_Idiot._"

"Will you please stop that?"

"How did Julie catch you? You never told me all the juicy details. I'd like to hear it."

"Too many nights of not coming home and lame excuses," I sighed bitterly. " She naturally got suspicious and hired a private detective to follow me. A blind man could have followed me and got the goods. God, I was such a clod, so damn careless...you'd think I would have learned to cover my tracks better by then."

"Caught you with your pants down."

"Basically." I was getting tired and having visions of him strapping me to the chair and interrogating me all night. "I was humiliated and Julie hit the roof. But the affair itself wasn't what really pissed Julie off and caused her to file for divorce."

"Do tell."

"The nurse's first name was Thomas," I said cooly. "That's how Julie found out. And that's why she hates my guts."


	36. Chapter 36

"You let yourself get caught with another _man_?" Greg gaped at me. "No wonder Julie had a cow. Damn Jimmy, do you have a death wish or something?"

"If that's what you want to call it," I answered. The never-ending questions were starting to rattle me; I just wanted some peace and quiet for a while. Another hour of this and I'd confess to the Lindbergh kidnapping just to make him shut up.

"What do you call it, Jimmy?"

"A huge mistake. A huge mistake that I still pay for every month."

"_Huge mistake_...that's the understatement of the year. Ah, the joys of alimony. That must be a bitch."

"It is, but I think I owe Julie _something_ after all that."

"Another reason to throw in the towel and switch teams," he said with a chuckle since he didn't have to live through the agony of all those divorces. "No more marriages means no more divorces, and no more divorces means no more alimony to wives until they die or remarry."

"Julie will never remarry just to spite me," I remarked with a disgusted snort. "She'll be squeezing every red cent out of me until one of us dies."

Greg's face went blank. "But you don't owe me anything, do you?" he said.

"I owe you a plate." It was the first thing to come out of my mouth and it was a stupid thing to say.

"Cut the crap. You know what I'm talking about." His tone was exasperated, maybe he was tired of talking as well and just wanted to hurry up and get it all over and done with already.

"I owed you an explanation, which I gave you," I said quietly and cautiously, hoping nothing else stupid spilled out before I could help it. "Other than that, no."

"That makes it so much easier to walk away."

"I was never going to walk away."

"You were making plans, right?"

"They were plans, that's all. Not even real plans. And they weren't plans to walk away. I told you they've been scrapped. I've made my decision," I replied, standing up. I didn't want to talk anymore. Anything else we had to discuss could wait. "I'm not going anywhere, except to bed." With that I walked out the room. He didn't try to trip me with the cane. He didn't follow.

* * *

For a while I lay there in the pitch dark, waiting for him to come crashing in with a hastily packed suitcase and demand that I get the hell out, out of his apartment and out of his life. For the longest time nothing happened; no sounds, no movement, then I heard the television click on and the sofa creak as he sat down. The usual routine, watching his shows with a glass or two of brandy. I drifted off as the low babble of _The L Word_ swirled around the bedroom. 

Still dark. Someone was talking to me. I managed to peel my eyes open. Greg's shadowy form was hovering me, shaking my shoulder. "You're taking your half out of the middle. Scoot over."

"Sorry," I mumbled and inched my way back over to my side, still groggy.

"Save it for something worth being sorry about." He flopped into the bed with all the grace of a drunk elephant seal, then suddenly yanked me right back to where I was. Before I knew what was happening, he was wrapped around me like a living straight jacket. The more I moved, the tighter his grip became. His hands were immobile manacles around my wrists.

"Here's a little thought to sleep on," he whispered hoarsely into my ear, smelling of soap and brandy. "If the day should ever come when you really want to walk away, remember two things. One, you'd better be serious about it. Two, you really better be serious about it. After all the this time, after all the years I've known you, I'm not about to let you go that easily. Do you hear me?"

"Yes." I gulped the air like a fish wanting to get back into the water.

"Damn right you fucking hear me," he growled, then moved his mouth up and down my neck as if to remind me what I might be missing before adding, "You said you made a decision. What decision was that?"

"To stay here with you."

"Why?"

"That's what I want."

"Is that really what you want or are you just telling me what I want to hear?"

"It's what I want, _goddamm it_, it's what I want," I managed to spit out that sentence before I broke down in tears again. "Christ, I said I was sorry. I'm still here. Can't you see that? _I'm still here. _What else do you want from me, Greg? What else do you want from me, just say it, please..."

His grip loosened and became an embrace. His hoarse whisper turned into some words of consolation that I couldn't hear as I sobbed into the pillowcase.


	37. Chapter 37

The last few days have been one long emotional rollercoaster showing no signs of slowing down, going around every loop and around every screaming corner until I'm left begging for mercy or throwing up or both. All I wanted to do was rip off the safety bar, jump off, and regain my equilibrium. What I really needed was vacation from myself. Unfortunately, that breaks all the laws of human nature, so I'm stuck with myself for the rest of my life. I was nothing short of emotionally drained. That's the price I have to pay for my wake-up call to the wonderful world of reality, I suppose.

It's been no leisurely ride on the ferris wheel for Greg, either. Being too wrapped up in my own feelings and my own selfishness until his possessive streak took hold and I had the gall to act surprised when it did. Like he was ever going to let me walk out of here without the last word. It wasn't over until the tall guy with the cane said so. A few wayward thoughts weren't enough to get me booted out of the apartment. However, they were enough, along with all the other turmoil of the day, to reduce me to a pathetic weeping wreck on the bed.

I finally stopped, exhausted, and slowly put myself back together piece by piece. No more tears left to cry, no more energy to waste feeling sorry for poor little me. A few pieces were missing or didn't fit right. Tomorrow I'd look for the rest of them. Right now I needed some rest.

An arm tightened around my waist. A beard scraped and scratched my shoulder.

"Hey," Greg said quietly in that 'how-are-you-feeling?' doctor voice while he curled up as close as possible without becoming a second skin.

"What? What do you want, Greg?" I could only hope he didn't decide to suddenly continue the interrogation. That would reduce me to Thorazine and a padded room. "Please, not now, I'm tired..."

"You okay?"

"No," I muttered. "But maybe I will be someday."

"I'm not going to just let you go, Jimmy. Not after all we've been through."

"Thank you. All is right with the world now."

"All I want is James Wilson. That's all I want from you."

"I can do that." A weird feeling crashed over me. Looking back, I would later identify that feeling as joyous relief.

"I could never hate you, Jimmy. Remember? If there's one thing you should remember, it's that."

"How can I forget? You won't let me," I managed to answer before exhaustion took over. I was asleep before the last word hit the air.

* * *

"Jimmy, tell me something, " my friend said as he watched me pour two bowls of Cheerios. 

"What?" I asked warily. I didn't sleep enough and was cranky and hardly in the mood for the third degree, which I was going to suffer through anyway. He could have at least waited until I finished my first cup of coffee. It's times like this when I wonder where Greg got the habit of saying exactly what's on his mind, his mother's side or father's side, so I could put the blame where it belonged.

"This Thomas person, if that is his _real_ name–"

"What about him?" My voice was edgy. I met his blue-eyed gaze and held it.

"You liked him?"

"Sure I liked him. Why?"

"Would you go back to him if you could?" he continued as if he didn't hear my question. Selective deafness. He'd probably list that as one of his finer traits.

"No," I replied as I lugged the full gallon of milk to the table and drowned the cereal in it. Then I dumped seven heaping spoonfuls of coffee grounds into a soup cup and topped it off with boiling water.

"You said you liked him. Why won't you go back to him?"

"'Like' can mean a lot of things, Greg."

"Like what?" Not teasing. He really wanted to hear my response. "The feeling wasn't mutual, was it?"

"It may have been, at first," I said after several gulps of beautiful caffeine oblivion began to run through my bloodstream and take over my nerve endings. "He was a nice guy. And he loved to read. You should have seen all the books he had. He had seven huge floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crammed full. He even had a Raymond Chandler first edition. But in the end we just didn't mesh. His taste in everything from music to movies to food to books were completely different from mine. This guy had actually read _War and Peace_, for crying out loud, _twice_. He zigged and I zagged. In our case, opposites didn't attract. It was only a matter of time before we called it off."

"But Julie caught you first."

"Yeah. Like I said, he was a nice guy. I wish we could have remained friends"

"When was the last time you saw him?" Greg asked as he scraped the bottom of the bowl for runaway bits of Cheerios, then poured a second bowl.

My appetite wasn't up to par; I just stirred the milk into a tiny whirlpool while the pulpy cereal disintegrated. "The night Julie told me about the detective. She filed for divorce the next day."

"Thomas never called or wrote to you or did anything to contact you after that?"

"Nope."

"So what really happened?" Greg politely inquired.

I needed another few gulps of caffeine heaven before I could answer. "He blamed me. It was all _my_ fault a detective was following us, now he's all embarrassed, now the neighbors are going to complain, blah blah blah. You'd think he was living next door to Fred Phelps the way he was carrying on about his neighbors having a heart attack over him being caught with another man. Anyway, he said he never wanted to see me again, so I left."

"You miss him?"

"Not really. I wish it didn't end the way it did, though. I regret that if nothing else."

"Was he worth it, Jimmy?"

"No. But he had one hell of a book collection. I'm sure he's reading Hemingway right now and actually liking it. He had the entire Hemingway collection."

"You reading anything right now, Jimmy?" Greg asked with mock sincerity. Only asking just to hear the title and find a way to steal the book before I was finished, whether he actually wanted to read the damn thing or not. He knows he can drive me crazy and get away with it.

"I was going to see if I could find my copy of _Misery_."

"Well then," he beamed as if he'd won a free lifetime supply of Vicodin, "You won't mind if I steal _The Alienist_ again."


	38. Chapter 38

_A/N: I believe the story is coming to an end so I'm going to be winding it down over the next few chapters. Thanks to all my readers and reviewers. You guys rock!_

* * *

"Any more Thomas's in your future?" Greg asked as I got up and rinsed out the cereal bowls. I barely ate any of my breakfast. It's time like this when I'm glad Greg has a garbage disposal. The gooey mess disappeared down the drain. 

"I hope not."

"Why's that?"

"I have enough exes who hate me," I answered with a deep sigh. " I don't need another one to worry about running into."

"What do you do when you miss your ex?" he asked, pulling himself up with the cane.

"Turn the car around and try again," I finished with a chuckle while wiping the soapy hot water from my hands.

"I see you've heard that one before." He joined me at the sink, putting a reassuring arm around my shoulder. I immediately felt better. "Now that Jimmy Wilson is officially off the market again, who are the poor nurses going to flirt with?"

I looked up and grinned. "You?"

"They never flirted with me to begin with. When they find out whose bed you're sharing, they're going to freak out and never flirt with you again."

"Chase?"

"I suppose, as long as they don't mind that he's prettier than they are."

"You've been checking out _Chase_? I don't believe it."

"I hired the damn guy and work with him every day. That has given me more than a few ample moments to admire his nice little wombat ass."

"From a distance, I hope."

"Exactly. The kid is straighter than your average two-by-four. Even if he did swing my way, he couldn't handle me. I'd eat him alive, no pun intended. Pretty boys don't usually do much for me, but still, he's nice to look at."

"It's nice that you have standards," I remarked.

"Heterosexual Australians who would have an aneurysm if I tried to put my hand down his pants don't make it into my top ten if that's what you mean," he said. "And I'm not in the mood for a sexual harassment lawsuit right now, and neither is Cuddy."

"Since when did you care about what Cuddy thinks?"

"Me being a jackass to patients is one thing. Me jumping on all the pretty doctors, male or female, is another. If I did ever bring Chase to my side, Cameron would have no one to sleep with if she ever decided to binge on meth again."

* * *

It was a whirlwind of a day, I barely had time to scarf down a sandwich and chug a soda between patients, meetings, and clinic duty. Papers to sign, tests to check, one right after the other. When I was able to stop for a second, catch my breath and remember what planet I was on, the sun was nothing but a big red and orange stain in the west. Twelve hours gone by in heartbeat. 

Greg wasn't in his office.

He wasn't home either. He was sitting on the hood of my car.

"Your bike break down?" I asked, walking around to meet him. "Why didn't you wait for me in my office?"

"My bike is fine, and you weren't in your office when I looked so I came out here . I figured you wouldn't drive off with a cripple on your hood."

"Yeah, I don't think that kind of hood ornament is legal," I said. "Then again, I didn't go medical school because I wanted to be a lawyer." I settled next to him on the car. "What brings you to my Volvo?"

"Making sure no nurses sunk their claws into you. That might lead to a fight to the death, and I always win." He looked me up and down with a hard stony glare, slowly and deliberately. I broke out in goosebumps. "No lipstick traces on you."

"Should there be?"

"No. I'm just feeling possessive of what's mine. It must be a full moon."

"I'm head of the oncology department," I reminded him, like it was breaking news. " I'm expected to do some work every now and then. My patients expect me to know what's wrong with them. I didn't have time to flirt with anyone today."

"Work is overrated. You could have stopped by for a quickie. And we haven't kissed in front of Cuddy yet. Remind me to get the camera out and ready for that Kodak moment."

"If you wanted a quickie so bad, you could have come by my office. The corridor goes both ways, Greg."

"_Hmph_. You've had pesky patients around you all day. I'm sure that elderly Mrs. Sherman is nice and all, but in her mind it's still 1954 and nice boys just don't make out other nice boys."

"What do nice boys do then?"

A wicked smile broke across his face. "I don't know. We're not nice boys, Jimmy. Let's go do some bad boy stuff."


	39. Chapter 39

"So now what?" I asked. The last light of the evening slanted in the windows. The apartment took on a milky glow.

"That depends," Greg answered, arms on either side of me, pretty much keeping me pinned to the front door. Letting me know who I belonged to. Not that I really minded. "Why don't you clue me in on what you're talking about."

"Is all forgiven with me?"

He smiled a crooked smile. "_Forgive_ is a such a strong and compelling word. Maybe too strong for my liking."

"I never thought I'd see the great Gregory House foiled by a simple word." I said with a low chuckle.

His smile never faded, in fact it got broader. "I'm not foiled, and I'm hardly foiled by one silly little word. It'll take more than the alphabet to make me stumble. But you can still refer to me as _great_. I like the sound of that."

"I knew you would."

"I'm so easy to please."

"You didn't answer my question," I said. "Am I forgiven?"

"I'll forget about it now and forgive you for it later."

"Later? How much later?"

"We'll see. Take it or leave it. That's my final offer."

"That sounds fine."

"You sure about that?"

"Yes."

"Anything can sound fine when you don't have a choice," he told me, leaning his unshaven form closer. The smell of the warm July outdoors still swirled around us like a perfume. His eyes glinted in the remaining light like blue sparks. "Now that I have you, what am I going to do with you?" He brought a hand up and ran the thumb down my cheek. I loved every second of it. "Forgiveness doesn't come for free, you know. It has to be earned."

"How long is it going to take me to earn your forgiveness?" I asked with a bit of wariness, wondering what kind of petty little favors he would make me do. Hopefully forgiveness wouldn't go hand in hand with scrubbing out the oven with my toothbrush. Maybe he'd be happy with a few new bottles of scotch and brandy.

"Well, you _insist_ on staying here with me, so I guess you're well on your way on the bumpy road to forgiveness." Greg paused for a series of warm, deep kisses that had me melting against the door. "I'll tell you the rest later. I don't really feel like talking right now, and neither do you."

* * *

I waited until the Vicodin kicked in and he had a late dinner in his stomach to take the plunge. "I need to ask you something, Greg." 

"Need, huh?" He was lounging on one end of the sofa, finishing off a Pepsi. Still hiding the scar under tattered jeans, but I wasn't going piss him off by saying something about it. I sat at the other end and waited patiently for an answer. A raised eyebrow told me I had his attention. "Getting all serious on me, Jimmy? I hope you don't _need_ a kidney or _need_ part of a liver because you're out of luck in that department."

"I'm sort of serious here. As you well know, it takes two to tango."

"You want to tango _again_? Gee whiz, you're insatiable. It's amazing your poor wives could even walk."

"No, it has nothing to do with that or my wives. I want to live in _our_ apartment." I gave it a few beats to sink in. The raised eyebrow shifted into a furrow. "You're always talking about staying under _your_ roof, _your_ living room, _your_ apartment. I was just wondering if it could be _ours_."

I had to wait until he finished his drink for a response. It was a long and deliberate wait, but I didn't mind because I had caught him off guard and he needed to a few moments to gather his thoughts. "You're more than 'sort-of' serious. You wouldn't be talking like that if you didn't intend to stick around for a while."

"I'm here to stay," I said.

"Yes, you told me that already."

"You don't believe me?"

"Oh, I believe you, and I'm sure you believe it too," he grinned, "but in this case actions shall speak louder than words."

"How so?"

"Well, my dear Jimmy, you do a little favor for me, and tomorrow night you can come home to _our_ apartment and all will be forgiven."

"Nothing screams 'forgiveness' like blackmail," I groaned. "I'm going to regret this, right?"

"No. This isn't blackmail. It's just one little thing. It's something you owe me anyway." Greg told me with a smirk. I was squirming again, uncomfortable, and he was enjoying it. I should be used to it by now.

"Can't I do it now and get it over with?"

"Nope."

"Why not? Are you going to drag this out forever just to torture me?"

"You can't give me what you owe me until tomorrow, so relax. You're just going to have to wait and see."


	40. Chapter 40

_A/N: The last chapter. -sob- Special thanks to Caerulea and AnonyMiss731. You guys are the best!_

* * *

A person like me needs a thick skin to get by in a sometimes less-than-forgiving world, and my wives will not be forgiving me anytime soon. Keep in mind I hardly expect them to, especially after some of the shit I pulled and tried -unsuccessfully- to pull. If my ex-wives could see me now I'm sure they would have more than a few things to say. Good luck with your new life wouldn't be one of them, but that's okay. I hardly need their permission to move on. And they aren't exactly burning up the telephones to ask for mine.

* * *

"What did I get myself into?" I wondered aloud while leaning into the wall of the corridor outside Greg's office. Everything seemed to glow harshly under the fluorescent lights today, giving me a headache. Greg stood beside me, leaning on his cane and waiting a bit impatiently for his page to be answered. 

"Didn't you say that the first time you fell into my bed?" Greg leered in my direction. "Oh wait, it wasn't that. I remember now, you said _'Oh God, Greg, do that again_'. Actually, you were screaming that at the top of your lungs, not that I could blame you. I'm just that good."

"Keep your voice down, for crying out loud. Someone might hear you. Do you mind?"

"No, I don't. I didn't think you really minded getting laid, but I'm not an uptight oncologist."

"You're just a crabby diagnostician with a bum leg."

"Talk like that again and you're sleeping on the floor tonight."

"I like the bed. It's _our_ bed now, remember?" I said, desperately trying to change the subject.

"Not quite yet, Dr. Wilson. All in good time."

"Is she even here yet?"

"She's always here. The hospital is her baby and nobody else is allowed to babysit. Besides, we walked right by her car. Is your short-term memory on the fritz again? Are you having a relapse? Do I need to get you some more big blue pills?"

The memory of those horrid blue anti-viral pills made my throat close up. "No thanks." The hospital was still relatively quiet in the early morning hours. It was just me and Greg in the corridor. "She's ignoring you. Page her again."

"She knows better than to ignore _me_. Who knows what I'm capable of doing when she's not looking over my shoulder," he said with a wicked grin.

"Isn't that the truth," I muttered under my breath just as Cuddy rounded the corner and marched up to us.

"Do you have a real reason to page me, Dr. House, or do you just want to have a look at my funbags before you start clinic duty?" Her eyes were narrowed as if in anger, but the tiny smirk across her mouth gave away her real mood.

"I would never do such a thing," he answered with badly feigned shock while looking down her blouse. "But now that you mention it--"

"What do you want, House?"

"World peace and weekends off."

"That's not going to happen anytime soon. Anything else? How about _you_, Dr. Wilson? Don't even think about asking for weekends off."

"Nothing for me. I'm fine," I told her with what I hoped was a convincing smile.

"At least someone is," Cuddy sighed, her patience growing thin. "Do you need anything or are you just wasting my time for the hell of it?"

"For the record, I'm not wasting your time, Dr. Cuddy," I said, only realizing how lame it sounded after I said it. I need to rehearse these things better. "I'll see you two later." With that, I pulled Greg into a sloppy wet kiss, then stalked off towards my office.

"Thank you for the show, boys," Cuddy said. That stopped me dead in my tracks. I turned around to see hergrinning from ear to ear. "Who won the bet?"

"It wasn't a bet, it was a favor," Greg informed her as if she really cared a toss or not. I could feel the blush creeping up my neck and rushing into my face. Greg plastered on the apathetic face that was usually reserved for whiny soccer moms and their screaming demon spawn.

"But it was House's idea," she noted with ever growing amusement. Her anger at having her time wasted was forgotten for the moment. She was too busy enjoying our little show. Maybe we'd buy her dinner, too. "That's quite a favor."

"Jimmy's quite a guy," he said, the apathy broken by that self-satisfied grin. The man could be a real attention-whore when the mood struck.

"Met your match, Dr. House?" Cuddy asked.

He answered, "That's one way to put it."

"I can only hope for your sake you get something out of this, Dr. Wilson," she said, looking directly into my eyes with a combination of interest and questioning.

"I am," I told her.

"What is it?" she asked, really wanting to hear what I had to say.

My answer was simple: "Everything."

--The End.


End file.
